The Road Not Taken
by xtexan86
Summary: Starsky goes back home to NY for a well-deserved break, but that isn't going to happen.  Last story in the trilogy of "A Sister's Love," and "When the Curtain Falls."  Contains some violence. Chapter 16 added, story is complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Well, finally, at long last! I'd originally planned to have this story done nearly two years ago, but another story, _Buried in Ashes_, elbowed its way in and demanded a fair share of time. This tale, _The Road Not Taken_, is the final story in my trilogy which focuses around Starsky's adoptive sister, Breanna. It may be helpful to read the first two stories, but not essential. I'd again like to offer my sincerest thanks to my betas, Nik and Dawn - you ladies are the best! This story is complete and I'll be posting a chapter each day until the end. I hope you enjoy and if you feel compeled, feedback is always appreciated.

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**The Road Not Taken**

_Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,  
And sorry I could not travel both  
And be one traveler, long I stood  
And looked down one as far as I could  
To where it bent in the undergrowth;_

_Then took the other, as just as fair,_  
_And having perhaps the better claim,_  
_Because it was grassy and wanted wear;_  
_Though as for that the passing there_  
_Had worn them really about the same,_

_And both that morning equally lay_  
_In leaves no step had trodden black._  
_Oh, I kept the first for another day!_  
_Yet knowing how way leads on to way,_  
_I doubted if I should ever come back._

_I shall be telling this with a sigh_  
_Somewhere ages and ages hence:_  
_Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—_  
_I took the one less traveled by,_  
_And that has made all the difference._

—Robert Frost 1916—

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Chapter 1

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Starsky handed the driver a ten dollar bill and told him to keep the change. He got out of the Checker cab and waited while the man took his suitcase out of the trunk and placed it on the curb. As the cabbie got back in his car and left, Starsky stood for a moment looking at the brownstone row house in front of him. The building had changed colors through the years, but there was one thing about it that had remained untouched since his childhood—the large bay window to the left of the front door. Up until the day he'd been sent across country, that window had provided him a 180 degree view of the world outside of his home. For thirteen years, he'd watched the seasons change, neighbors come and go, and for five days a week, right at five-thirty, watched his Pop walk up the twelve steps to the front door. Until one day in May, when two uniformed officers had come to the house instead…

Letting the memory slide back into the past, Starsky picked up his suitcase and headed for the front door.

"Oh, my baby!" Rachel squealed as she opened the front door.

Starsky grabbed his mother in strong embrace, rocking her gently. He wanted to preserve the feeling of her in his arms, hoping to make up for the times when they were apart. Finally separating, Rachel held on to Starsky's arms as she examined him from head to toe.

"You look so good!" she exclaimed, a tear rolling down her cheek.

"Ma, you promised you wouldn't cry."

Wiping a palm across her cheek, Rachel fibbed, "That's just my eyes watering from the cold." She stepped back and opened the door wider. "Come in, come in!"

An hour later, Starsky sat at the kitchen table and watched Rachel carve a few slices of bread from a freshly baked loaf. She set them on a plate, along with a butter knife, and passed them to him. After slathering each piece with a coating of butter, Starsky took the first succulent bite and shoved the remainder back across the table.

"Oh, Mom," he said, around a full mouth, "this is wonderful."

Rachel stepped over to the sink and rinsed her hands. She patted them dry on her apron before sitting down. "It's good you have your appetite," she said. "You looked so skinny in those pictures that Ken sent me."

Starsky remembered Hutch taking the pictures nearly two months after he was released from the hospital. It had been the first time he'd felt well enough to go to the beach for a few hours. Until he'd seen the pictures himself, Starsky hadn't realized how thin and pale he'd gotten. At first, he didn't think it would be a good idea to send the photos to Rachel, but Hutch had talked him into it. Thankfully, all Rachel had to say back then was how pleased she was to see that he was getting out of the house.

He took another bite, savoring the fresh bread and butter a bit longer. "You know, there for a while, this was all I really enjoyed eating, especially in the hospital," Starsky said, watching Rachel help herself to a piece. "Not that I was getting home-made bread, but those little rolls? At least that was something I could eat."

The smile on Rachel's face disappeared for a moment.

"What is it? Mom?"

She held up a hand for an instant and gently shook her head. "It's nothing," she said, putting the bread slice down. "I just wished I could have stayed longer when you were in the hospital. But your Uncle Amos, God rest his soul, he just didn't have anyone to help him."

"Ma, don't feel bad. You were there for what, at least a week?" Starsky cringed a little. Truth was, he really didn't remember too much about her visit. Just bits and pieces of some conversations, mostly. He'd been awful woozy back then, especially while hooked up to God knows what in the ICU.

"Yes, I know. But you are my son. Thank goodness you had Breanna and Ken there with you."

With that, Rachel seemed to prefer to drop the subject as she went back to eating. Starsky finished his slice and decided to wolf down another. Glancing at Rachel every now and then, he noticed she was still contemplative, which wasn't usual. Starsky guessed it was because the two of them had never really talked about the shooting. And if they had, it had only been in a roundabout way, like today.

"Mom, about the shooting," Starsky began. "You've never said too much, but…did it change the way you felt about me being a cop?"

Rachel lifted her head, the expression on her face calm, but serious. "You are a smart boy, my _lieber_. Do you not already know my answer in your heart?"

Starsky just stared at her, hoping silence would convey how important her response was to him.

Rachel released a small sigh. "A mother always worries about her children, Davey, no matter where they are or what they do. There has never been a time I haven't worried about you, or Nicky, or Bree. All I can do is hope that you are well and happy…but you want more, yes?"

Starsky nodded his head.

Rachel wiped her fingers on the paper napkin by her plate. "Your Poppa once told me that things happen for a reason. Good or bad, it all serves a purpose. I guess that is the best way to feel, otherwise what choice do we have?" She reached out and took Starsky's hand. "I had to keep telling myself that being a police officer is what made you feel important. And that you had been hurt before, but you didn't quit. I decided to live with it, because that's what you were doing."

"But Mom, I didn't…" Starsky stopped. He'd never wanted her to be miserable, although it suddenly occurred to him what she was saying. "I didn't become a cop just because that's what Pop was."

"I know," Rachel said. "You tried many other things first. It was only when you realized those didn't make you happy that you found your calling."

"Yeah, well, some calling," he muttered.

"Why do you say that?" Rachel exclaimed. "You are good at what you do!" Pausing for a moment, she added, "Is it that you are getting tired of all those bad people?"

"I think I'm just tired of dealing with more bad than good," he said flatly.

"Do you want to quit?"

Starsky considered just answering 'of course not,' but Rachel would know he was lying. Dipping his head, he said, "I've thought about it."

He felt her hand squeeze his and then let go. "No one would blame you, Davey. What has Ken said about this?"

Frowning, he quietly answered, "I haven't really talked to him."

"Well, it is your decision to make," Rachel said, leaning back in her chair, "but he shouldn't be the last one you talk to. Are you afraid he will be angry with you?"

He let the question sink in before answering. "Maybe not so much angry, but disappointed. This is all both of us have done for a long time. We even tried to do something else a while back, but it didn't work out."

"Tell me more about this other partner you were working with, the one who died."

Starsky drew back, unnerved at hearing Trevor being mentioned so unexpectedly. He'd briefly told Rachel about the incident before coming to New York, saying it was one of the reasons why he needed a break.

"I…I guess there's not a lot to say," Starsky managed, not sure if he could express his feelings about the man without letting his emotions go.

"You cared about him?"

"Yes—" was his immediate reply.

"Does that surprise you?"

Lifting his head, Starsky asked, "Whatd'ya mean?"

Rachel leaned forward, looking at him intently. "You and Ken, you are like brothers, good brothers. The way you feel about each other, it's like two people who exist as one. But you found another you connected with…that you cared about."

"So what are you saying, Mom?"

"You are looking for answers, but in the wrong places. Your job, it is still the same as it was the first day you started. Ken—he has not been the only partner you have cared about. There have been others, you know this. So, these things, they have not changed…but you have, Davey." Rachel grabbed his hand again. "You must ask yourself why you are seeing all of this different now. If you don't like your job, then why were you able to work with this last partner well enough that now you mourn his loss, eh?"

Reflecting on her words, Starsky looked down. This was not something he'd be able to reason through too quickly.

"I think I'd like to lay down for a bit," he said, feeling the day's events catching up to him, "if that's okay?"

"Of course, my darling." Rachel got up with him. "When you wake up, maybe you will feel like eating dinner, yes?"

Starsky glanced at his watch and felt his shoulders droop. "Oh Mom, I forgot about the time difference. If you're hungry, we can eat right now."

"I'm just fine," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I didn't plan on having a big meal your first day here. You just go rest, and don't worry about me."

"Thanks." Starsky leaned over and gave her a quick peck on her cheek. He headed down the hall to his old bedroom, passing by pictures of him and Nick as kids. Barely stopping to kick off his shoes, he drew back the quilted bedspread and dove under the sheets onto the soft mattress. Pulling the covers up to his chin, he nestled his head into the pillow.

He closed his eyes and slowly relaxed, taking in the warmth slowly building around his body. This felt so right, lying safe and secure inside a room that held his childhood innocence. A room that had witnessed good night kisses from Mom as well as sibling fights with Nicky. These walls had also seen the first 'A' he'd ever made in school, heard his gasps of joy at finding money from the tooth fairy, and shielded him so he could climax in private after his first hard-on. And finally, it had protected him from the rest of the world when he lost Pop. This room was his inner sanctum, his sanctuary.

Starsky took another look at his four-walled refuge, now cast in the creamy darkness of early evening. He peered out from the covers at the single hung window by his bed, and watched the gentle descent of thousands of white, puffy snowflakes, brightly lit by the spotlights of the street lamps outside. He hadn't really missed the snow since moving to California. Once he'd stepped onto the beach, and felt the rush of hormones after gazing at bikinis displaying all colors of the rainbow, the cold and ice of home had all been forgotten. But this little spot in the Bronx would always be a center point in his life.

And even though his life felt like a piece of yarn, being knitted into something unrecognizable, all he needed was a way to pull the string and have all the chaos unravel and disappear—then he could recreate it again, into something warm and comfortable to wear. The problem was he hadn't been able to find the right set of instructions yet.

Starsky wasn't sure what woke him up. It might have been the dream he was having or the sound of the phone ringing outside of his bedroom. He pulled his hand out from under the covers and looked at the glowing dots on his watch. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he got out of bed, feeling groggy at taking a nap so early in the evening. He padded out to the living room, picking up bits of Rachel's conversation with someone on the phone. She briefly turned her attention to him and mouthed the name, "Bree."

"Yes, he's fine," Rachel said into the receiver. "He just got up from his nap. Would you like to talk to him?" She listened to a little more of the conversation, then ended with, "Okay, stay well, and thank you for calling."

Rachel handed the phone to Starsky.

"Hey, what's goin' on?" he said, his voice still a little rough.

"_Just calling to see if you'd made it there okay_." Bree's voice came through clear and happy.

"Yeah, no problems. I would've called sooner, but I guess I was kinda tired."

"_Those cross country flights are pretty long, aren't they_?" she asked.

"Spoken from true, personal experience, I'm sure." Starsky glanced over his shoulder, and noticed that Rachel had gone into the kitchen. "Hey, I sure wish you could be here. I know Mom would love to see you."

"_I know, and I'm really gonna miss you, too. Maybe Nicky will pull a surprise and show up for dinner some night, you think?_"

Releasing a groan, Starsky remarked, "I doubt it. That's another thing I've got to see about while I'm here. You and Hutch still gettin' together on Christmas?"

"_As far as I know. Did you call him yet_?"

"No, probably will in a little bit."

"_Okay, well, I'll let you go then. Tell Mom I love her and I'll call again next week_."

"Will do."

"_And Davey? You take care, alright_?"

"Sure."

Starsky hung up the phone, then followed Rachel into the kitchen.

"Are you hungry, my boy?" she asked, putting a few dried dishes away.

"Maybe for a sandwich." Starsky headed for the refrigerator. "You got any lunch meat?"

"Here," Rachel said, beating him to the door. "You go sit down, I'll fix you something."

Smiling, Starsky let her do as she wanted. He wandered back into the living room, and looking at the phone, decided to give Hutch a quick call.

"'_ello_?" The voice sounded hurried.

"Hey, it's me."

"_Oh, hi 'me.' You make it to your mom's alright_?"

"Yeah, all in one piece."

"_How was the trip_?"

"Long. Everything okay out there?"

"_Funny you should ask_." Hutch said in a clipped tone.

"What?"

"_Frank Suko was killed today_."

Starsky let his jaw drop. "Mob hit?" he asked tentatively.

"_I don't think so. Lou Vinetti most likely_."

"Yeah…wouldn't surprise me."

"_You sound pretty bummed. I thought you'd take it a little differently_."

"No, I mean…" Starsky wasn't sure what he felt. "I guess he got what he deserved."

There was a slight pause, then Hutch said, "_Oh, I found your present. I thought we weren't getting each other anything._"

"Well, seeing that I wasn't gonna be around, I thought I'd make sure you didn't forget about me."

"_No chance of that happening, buddy_." Starsky felt a warm wave go through him. "_I hope it's worth waiting another couple of days to open, though._"

Smiling, Starsky said, "I kept the receipt just in case." Seeing Rachel come out of the kitchen with a plate in her hand, he added, "Hey. I'll call you on Christmas, and make sure Bree cooks that turkey all the way. Don't want to hear about you two ending up in the hospital with food poisoning."

"_Don't think that's gonna happen, but I'm bringing my meat thermometer just in case._"

Starsky let out a quick chuckle. "Okay. Later, then."

"_Hey, Starsk_?"

"Yeah?"

"_You get some rest…okay_?"

"Already got started on that."

He hung up the phone and went over to the table to see what Rachel had fixed. Normally, the sight of anything prepared by his mother sent his appetite soaring. But as he sat down and prepared to launch into the enticing serving in front of him, Starsky couldn't help but think about the news about Suko. Even though the man who had caused him almost as much pain as Gunther was dead, there was no feeling of satisfaction. Strangely, all Starsky felt was more grief.

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TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks everyone for your kind reviews!

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**Chapter 2**

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The next morning, Starsky awoke to bright sunlight slicing through the narrow gap between the bedroom curtains. He rolled over and picked his watch up from the night stand, surprised to find it was already after nine o'clock. Not quite ready to get out of bed, he lay quietly under the warm covers, taking in the peace and comfort of being in his old home.

It wasn't too many days ago that the morning would have played out in a different way, but thankfully, memories of waking up in jail were now part of his past. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Starsky mentally formed a list of things he needed to do today. The biggest, and most dreaded one, was finding a shrink to talk to. For reasons he still couldn't articulate, doing this would be more of a favor to Dobey. It was something he owed the boss who had stuck by him, even when Starsky had all but drove the man away.

He was still cringing at some of the remarks he'd made at the captain's expense. Maybe volunteering to look at ink blot pictures might show he'd given some thought about whether coming back to work would actually, 'work.' And as hard as it would be to find a shrink, it definitely seemed easier than the next item on his list—seeing another doctor.

Starsky wasn't exactly sure why he'd decided to do this. Maybe he was seeking the impossible—for some medical professional to tell him, "Take this pill and you'll be fine in six months."

He knew a miracle like that wasn't going to happen. Medicine had only cured him just so much. But perhaps, somewhere, there was a doctor who had a different remedy in mind. One that wouldn't involve more surgery, and yet fix him up enough to return to being a street cop. At least that's what he thought he wanted, wasn't it? All those months spent in physical therapy trying to recover from Gunther's field day, there _was_ a reason for that, right?

_Shit._

Why was he thinking so much about work? Being a cop was why he was here, three thousand miles away from his adoptive home, trying to escape the horrors and demons this wonderful profession had graciously dumped on him. The same job that had driven a wedge into his friendship with the only person who…who made all the difference when things started going downhill. Hell, he loved that man. There was no question he would do anything for him. But—continuing to be a cop? _God, Hutch…what if I can't do that for _you?

Starsky felt his eyes watering, and wiped away the tears. All he wanted was to be happy, to feel like he was doing something that mattered. But truth was, even if he'd died from Gunther's bullets, nothing would've changed. Crime, criminals, victims. They'd all still be there, and he'd be gone. Just another dead cop.

And Hutch. What would he do? Keep working, or quit? Maybe if Starsky couldn't be happy anymore, he could at least make Hutch happy by staying with the department. Would that count as doing something that mattered? Sadly, he didn't need to be told the answer. He could fool Hutch for a while, but eventually Blondie would see through the act. The painful realization was that, no matter what he decided, either he or Hutch, or both of them, would end up hurt and miserable.

Instinctively seeking comfort, Starsky reached down into his shorts and grabbed his soft cock. Stroking lightly at first, then with more effort, he gave himself a hard-on. _Fuck_. He just wanted to fuck something, anything, so badly. To escape into a fantasy world where the only thing that existed was absolute bliss. As he pushed away the shame of having to resort to masturbation, he stroked himself harder and harder until he was ready to burst. Thrusting his hips up, Starsky clinched his teeth as he relished every spastic wave of pure ecstasy pulsing through his groin.

When the last spurt escaped, Starsky lay back, gasping for breath and spent. While waiting for his heart to settle down, he patted the sweat off of his face. He wanted to howl out his relief to the four walls and ceiling, but Rachel didn't need to come barging into the room and discover her son was having a, well, _planned_ uprising. The fact that he just jerked off in his old bedroom, with his mother in the house, was a bit hard to have to admit. But what was even harder to acknowledge was how long it had been since he'd indulged in such a needed release. Sometime before Gunther, and the constant need for pain pills, that was for sure.

Carefully, Starsky lifted off the covers and climbed out of bed, making sure he didn't leave any evidence behind of his last act. He spent a little time in the bathroom until he looked presentable, and went out into the hall, seeking Rachel. What he found first, in the living room, was certainly unexpected.

The evergreen tree in front of the bay window was about three feet high, but nearly hidden under dozens of miniature Christmas lights and a varied assortment of ornaments. There was even a string or two of popcorn draped around the small branches.

"Ma? What's this?" he hollered.

Rachel came out of the kitchen and stood beside him. "Honestly, Davey, you don't know?"

"But…when did you…you did this all, last night?" he stammered, still not believing his own eyes.

"I did a little last night, but I knew you wouldn't be an early riser."

"Oh, Mom." Starsky took a few steps closer to the festive display, deeply admiring his mother's efforts.

"Do you like it?" Rachel asked.

"It's beautiful." Starsky turned and gave her a big hug. "Sorry I didn't call you during Hanukkah. There was so much going on, and once I got locked up, I just couldn't tell you what was happening. You would have worried yourself sick."

Separating from her son, Rachel said, "I've become quite good at worrying. Sometimes not knowing, that is the hardest. But you are fine and here now, that is all that matters."

Starsky gave her a small grin, but couldn't help thinking about the many things that weren't fine.

"Come," Rachel said, pulling him to the kitchen table. "You have a seat and tell me what I should make you for breakfast."

"You don't have to fix anything, Mom. Some toast and coffee would be fine."

"Toast and coffee!" she said in an outraged tone. "You might eat that way at home, but not here." She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of eggs and some bacon. "Here, my children don't starve. How many eggs do you want?"

Knowing that resistance was futile, Starsky let her prepare as much food as she wanted. Even though it had been enough to feed a small army, the meal was absolutely delicious. He wished he could've enjoyed home cooking like this while Rachel was in LA, but fried eggs and bacon strips wouldn't exactly have slid through an IV tube very well, much less had any taste.

Finishing off the last of his orange juice, Starsky thought about the times his family had sat down to eat at this table. Normally, it was just the five of them, ready to dig into whatever Rachel had prepared. Occasionally, though, Pop would invite some friends over for dinner. One in particular only came during the best meals.

"Mom, did Pop ever talk about Joe Durniak much?"

Rachel instantly froze while cleaning a plate in the sink. "Joey Durniak? Why do you want to know about him?" Her voice was shaky and mimicked the way she started to handle the dish in her hands.

"Just wondering how well Pop got along with him," Starsky continued, watching Rachel with a close eye. "I mean, considering they were on opposite teams. Didn't seem to matter very much, or did it?"

"That was a long time ago, Davey. Why bring it up now? Your Poppa, rest his soul, he's been gone…"

When she didn't finish, Starsky got up and went to stand beside her. "Hey, I know what happened when Pop died. Uncle Sal told me, that time he came to visit. I just want to find out how close Pop and Joe really were."

"Your Uncle Sal, he should mind his own business," Rachel said abruptly, scrubbing the plate harder. "He just likes to hear himself talk."

"Mom," he said, looking at her until she made eye contact. "It's important."

Rachel let the plate slip back into the sudsy basin and dried her hands on her apron. "Poppa had a hard time when he was young," she began. "He lost his father, too, you know, to the cancer. Out of five boys, he was the oldest, so everyone depended on him to put food on the table. Even back then, that was not an easy thing for a fifteen year old."

She brushed by him and went to sit down at the table. "He knew Joey from the neighborhood. He was a little older and nothing but a hoodlum. When Poppa needed more money, he started stealing with Joey. One night, both of them broke into a shop. Joey got away, but your Poppa," Rachel showed a slight smile, "like he said, he ran the wrong way. This was a good thing, though. The policeman who caught him gave him a job so he could work and still go to school. Maybe that was why he decided to become one."

"Pop never told on Joe, did he?" Starsky folded his arms and leaned back on the counter.

"No. Poppa probably felt he owed him something. Even though it was wrong, Joey helped him feed his family. And Joey, he probably felt the same thing. That boy would've gone to prison if your Poppa had ever told."

"So, they kept being friends? Even after Pop joined the force?"

"Yes. He kept it very quiet, but they were friends." Rachel grew pensive. "You should know this, though—he always tried to do the right thing. Poppa would think more about a complete stranger than himself. And he loved you. He loved all of his children."

Starsky let out a sigh. "Yeah, I know that. It's just, Pop not being around…everything I know about him comes from other people."

"Davey, how can you say that? You knew your father!"

"I knew him through the eyes of a kid; it's not the same."

"What are you saying? That since you are a man now, you don't love your Poppa?" Rachel's face pinched into a frown.

"The father I knew as a boy is a lot different than the man I'm seeing as an adult, that's all I'm saying."

"You're not making any sense. How is he different?"

"Look, Ma, it's Christmas Eve," Starsky said, as he pushed off of the counter. "I came here to visit, so that means no fighting." He let go of a frustrated sigh and eyed the front door. "I'm going out for a while. Do you need anything from the store?"

"No, I've got everything. How long are you going to be gone?" Rachel asked, the worry in her voice clear.

Starsky leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek. "Just a couple of hours. And I'll make sure to look both ways before crossing the street."

"Go on, then," she said lightly, dismissing the jab.

Grabbing his jacket, Starsky thought of another subject. "Did you get a hold of Nicky?"

"I called, but there was no answer. Maybe you could try at his work, yes?"

Starsky silently cursed to himself. This was one of the things he hoped wouldn't be a problem. "Sure. See ya in a bit." He gave her one last smile before heading out the door.

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Bree finished making her bed and threw the last item of dirty clothing in the hamper. She glanced at the clock on the night stand. Ken would be off work in about two more hours. While he'd managed to get most of Christmas off, he had to go back to the precinct tomorrow evening.

With David on a leave of absence, Hutch needed to keep working. Up until now, he'd been assigned to desk duty. But with Homicide down two detectives because of the incident involving Simmons and Babcock, Dobey had finally secured a pair of seasoned detectives from Burglary, and a third just recently promoted. Today would be Ken's first time with the new man.

During his and Bree's previous evening together, Ken had made a few crude comments about his new job as a babysitter, trying to pass it off as just another unwanted responsibility. But Bree could see through the frustration and the fear hidden behind the posturing. Ken may have convinced everyone else around him that nothing was wrong, but she knew differently. Maybe it was the way he kept his head down or the lost look in his eyes. Either way, it didn't matter which expression signaled his true feelings. To her, every little nuance displayed the unavoidable fact that he was afraid of losing the one true constant in his life.

For now, though, all Bree could do was sympathize with her lover. This past year had been so hard, emotionally and physically, on both him and David. Even though her brother had weathered most of the bodily pain, Hutch had suffered the biggest share of the mental torment. First, with seeing his partner gunned down, and then in dealing with Starsky's fight against his psychological demons. There was no question in her mind whose shoes Ken would've preferred to have been in.

Yet despite all the heartache they'd each endured, Bree remained optimistic. What else could she do? There was always the possibility things could be worse, or remain just as bad, but they all deserved a break—a chance for life to get back to a tolerable level, or at least to how it used to be. Especially before men like Rothman and Gunther had busted in and left their ugly marks.

Bree picked up her purse, ready to head out the door for some last minute grocery shopping when she felt a touch of uneasiness. For the last few days, she'd been experiencing episodes of apprehension, but had been unable to figure out why. With David's track record, as well as Ken's, there was a good possibility she was sensing the first signs of an unwelcomed omen. When the feeling suddenly dissipated as quickly as it had appeared, she gratefully dismissed it as a case of holiday jitters and left the apartment for the parking lot.

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After walking for a few blocks, Starsky stuck his hands in his jacket to warm up. The day was sunny, but still on the chilly side, and the bright glare coming off of the snow made him regret not packing his sunglasses. As he tried to focus on the buildings around him, a particular store front across the street unexpectedly invoked an old memory.

Although the items in the large display window and the business name had changed, Starsky still recognized the old gun store. A chill cut through him as he vividly remembered walking down the sidewalk and into the building, led by a man he'd thought at the time was the closest thing to a father figure he had in his life.

When Pop was murdered, Dickie Roberts swiftly became a familiar and frequent visitor to the household, showing a special interest in Rachel's children. Never suspecting a thing, Starsky had welcomed the extra attention from Dickie. That is, until the day the adult had coaxed him into going to the gun shop.

On the way there, they had talked about, well, man stuff. Dickie seemed to know a sure way of enticing a girl so completely that she'd be craving to get to third base, if not home plate. Once inside the store, Dickie suggested they go downstairs to the basement storeroom so he could demonstrate this secret technique in private. What Starsky hadn't expected was that he was going to be the one demonstrated on.

How Dickie had smooth-talked him into stripping down to his underwear, he didn't remember. But the instant the man slipped Starsky's last piece of clothing off and grasped his cock, Starsky had wanted to fly out of that basement. He had been crushed by the realization that all of Dickie's attention was only because of what hung between David's legs. Not because he was a good kid, not because an adult had his best interest at heart, none of that. And as he'd watched the pervert pleasure himself, Starsky's revulsion finally built up to a point where he'd shoved away his shock and tried to break free. But his teenaged strength had been no match for his tormentor's and just as quickly, he'd found himself splayed out and about to be fucked like a dog.

Scared to death, he had braced himself as the blunt end of Dickie's penis wedged in between his buttocks. Before he could even begin to imagine the pain, and the shame of what he'd have to live with, his hell came to an abrupt halt—saved by an intervening hundred and five pound ball of sheer guts. Starsky hadn't known it then, but Bree had done more than just save him from being raped that day. She'd made sure Dickie would never try to molest any of them again, but at a huge cost.

With the awful memory fading away, Starsky realized he'd been standing in the same spot for a long time. Shaking off the past he shoved his hands further into his pockets and continued walking. The sound of a car engine revving, followed by tires trying to gain traction on the icy street got his attention. He turned just in time to see a tan, two-door Cutlass speeding toward him fishtail sideways and almost hit a parked car. The sound of a loud shot, followed by a second, instantly cut through him. Losing all muscle control, Starsky slumped helplessly to the ground. Before the daylight faded, the last thing he remembered was the crisp frostiness of snow on his face.

.

Hutch stiffly reached up and felt for the key on top of the door frame. The tightness in his neck and shoulders had grown increasingly worse through the day and was conspiring with his brain to launch one hell of a migraine. He let himself into the apartment and quickly stripped off his jacket and holster. Work had gone by extremely slowly, which had certainly done nothing to lighten his mood. Each time he had checked the time, it was only ten minutes later than before. And while the thought of going back in tomorrow wasn't helping matters, at least he had almost twenty-four hours until then.

Going into the kitchen, he grabbed a can of beer out of the refrigerator. Holding it across his forehead, Hutch headed to the bathroom and retrieved a bottle of aspirin from the medicine cabinet. He shook out three tablets and after popping open the can, swallowed them with a large swig of beer. The cool fizz felt soothing trickling down his throat. He drank another few mouthfuls then realized Bree wouldn't want him getting a head start on her before coming over. Regretfully, he took one last gulp and poured the rest down the bathroom sink.

Eying the shower in the bathroom mirror, Hutch decided to take a quick one; obviously, he'd have another chance later tonight to get undressed again. He turned on the faucet and slipped his clothing off as he waited for the first puffs of steam to rise. When the temperature was just right, Hutch sighed with appreciation as he stepped under the warm blanket of water.

Leaning forward to get the firm pulse from the showerhead on his shoulders, Hutch thought about the new kid Dobey had assigned to him. And calling him a 'kid' wasn't too far from the truth. Although he had worked uniformed patrol for six years, Jeffrey Kent still looked like he was barely out of high school.

But the guy was smart, both in a street-wise and practical sense. Unlike some people, he kept that attribute low key, especially when dealing with suspects out on the street. Kent's ability to converse with people as if he was just shooting the breeze, while apparently able to sense when they were lying or not, was interesting to watch. He came across like a skilled trainer leading his charge around a maze of obstacles, enjoying the moment when he could tighten the chain around a perp's neck and threaten to cut off his air supply unless the suspect spilled.

Hutch couldn't help but compare that last action with Starsky's preferred method of interrogation. His older and more seasoned partner wouldn't have the patience to dance around with a suspect like Kent did. To Hutch, it didn't matter which technique proved better, so long as the job got done. Still, as good as the new recruit was, Hutch would trade him off in a heartbeat to have his comfortable-as-a-pair-of-old-blue-jeans partner back again. Even with his parade float of a car.

Finished with his shower, Hutch grabbed a towel and patted himself dry. Inspecting his face in the mirror, he ran a hand around his chin. The feel of slight stubble convinced him to do a quick shave. Bree barely tolerated his mustache, and any other facial hair would definitely put a crimp on his plans for the evening. After completing the last stroke of the razor, he splashed on some Brut aftershave and got dressed. He grabbed Bree's store-wrapped gift and was heading for the front door when he suddenly realized he'd forgotten something.

Setting the package down, he returned to the bedroom. Sitting on his dresser was a small, box-shaped present wrapped in bright red paper with a white ribbon. A tag taped on top, scribbled in Starsky's scratchy handwriting, noted, "Don't open until Xmas." Hutch picked it up and sat down on the edge of his bed.

"Well, it's already Christmas somewhere in the world," he said softly.

Gently, he slipped off the ribbon and paper, and opened the white cardboard box. Lifting a few fluffy balls of cotton, Hutch felt himself pull back, unexpectedly surprised. A keychain, linked to a silver cowboy boot, lay beneath the packing. Lifting the shiny fob, Hutch noticed a small card underneath. He removed both items and set the empty box down on the mattress. Gingerly holding the little boot, he opened the note and silently read the one line message.

_"Hutch, so you'll know what's always in my heart, S."_

He dropped the note and carefully examined his present. "Just hope you know how to find your way back home, pal," he murmured to the empty room.

.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks again everybody!

.

**Chapter 3**

**.**

Starsky felt someone shaking his shoulder and woke up. For a moment, he wasn't sure what he was doing on the cold sidewalk, but a few things were very plain. First, he'd gotten hit again; second, he couldn't catch his breath. Starsky looked skyward to see who was more interested in rattling his head than trying to save him, and focused on someone straight from heaven.

"Sir! Sir! Are you alright?"

And that someone had a voice. Too bad he was probably going to die before getting her phone number.

"Hey! You need to quit breathing so fast, okay?"

_Quit breathing?_ Maybe she wasn't an angel; maybe she was related to James Gunther.

"There you go, that's it. Slow, deep breaths."

As more oxygen entered his lungs, Starsky started to regain his senses. Almost by reflex, he pressed a hand to his chest, expecting to feel the slick wetness of blood on his shirt.

"Are you hurt?" the woman asked.

"I don't know," Starsky answered, still confused over what had just happened. He looked passed her and quickly scanned the small crowd huddled over him. Even for New Yorkers, they were handling his attempted assassination pretty calmly.

As he tried to get up, his caretaker intervened. "Just lie still, there's an ambulance on the way."

"No! No, ambulance. I'm…" Starsky patted his chest again, not sure why he wasn't feeling any wounds. "I'm not shot?" he uttered, more to himself than anyone else.

"Shot?" The black-haired beauty scrunched up her face. "Oh, those weren't gunshots, hon," she said excitedly. "That was a car backfirin'." The southern accent was unmistakable now. "You're just havin' a panic attack. Here, let me help you up."

"A what?" Starsky took her hand, but as soon as he sat up, everything started to spin.

"On second thought, you should stay there and wait for the ambulance."

"I don't need an ambulance," Starsky said gruffly. He closed his eyes and placed one hand over them so they'd stay that way.

"I think I'd beg to differ," the woman pressed.

"What are you, a doctor?"

"Well, actually, I am."

Starsky dropped his hand and glanced up at her, happy at least to see she wasn't whirling around. "A real doctor?"

Producing a little scowl, she said, "Maybe not like you think, but yes. I'm a psychiatrist." She stuck out her hand. "Doctor Emily Prather."

Starsky stopped just short of accepting her assistance. "Well, doc…seein' as you charge by the hour, I think I'll just cut our session short." He tried to gather himself and stand up, but his leg muscles felt like rubber bands, very loose ones at that.

"Look, are you sure you want to get up?" she asked.

"As opposed to staying down here and gettin' all wet?" Starsky shifted off of his butt a little to show her the growing damp patch on his jeans.

"Oh, I see. You have a point." Emily looked up at the nearest bystander. "Could you help us?"

Before Starsky could object, a burly man slipped both hands under his arms and lifted him to an almost vertical position. Once standing, he pulled his arms back and gave the man a hesitant, but grateful nod. He found himself thinking it was a good thing most criminals weren't that big, otherwise he'd probably have to start carrying two guns.

With nothing left to look at now, the small crowd gathered around him began to break up. Content to just stay in one spot for the moment, Starsky absently wiped at the back of his jeans. Feeling better that he didn't have an audience gawking at him, he turned to the interesting shrink still at his side.

"So, do you only help people when they're lying down, or do you allow someone to return the favor—say, sitting at a bar?"

The doctor eyed him suspiciously. "Well, I really don't know you."

"But you could, I mean…" Starsky stopped, not sure whether this was the proper time or place to discuss how she might be the exact professional he was looking for. "What did you say I was having?" he asked, going for the back door method.

"Oh, a panic attack. You've never heard that before?"

"Well, yeah. I just thought it was someone runnin' around screaming or something."

She chuckled. "I guess that is what it sounds like. Actually, it can be a very serious symptom of a debilitating disease."

Starsky rolled his eyes, then thought better of his actions. Seeing that car coming at him and hearing those shots…

"Um, what was your name again?" he asked, embarrassed that he didn't catch it the first time.

"Emily Prather," she said. She opened her purse, and pulled out a wallet. Flipping it open, she dug out a business card. "My office is on Courtlandt, here in the Bronx. If you tell me your name, I'll let my secretary know to expect your call."

"I've heard of ambulance-chasing attorneys, but psychiatrists?" Starsky remarked, somewhat alarmed at Emily's uncanny ability to read his mind. But then, he already had experience with a female relative who could do even stranger things.

"It's completely up to you, but I hope you don't decide to try and deal with this on your own. I've helped many people with this problem; it's actually my specialty."

"It's Dave, Dave Starsky," he answered firmly.

"Okay, Dave." Emily raised her hand. As Starsky took hold of it, she added, "It was nice meeting you, even if it was under inauspicious circumstances."

"In...? Well, ah, thank you, and Merry Christmas!"

Producing a beautiful smile, she replied, "Yes, and Merry Christmas to you, too!"

Watching her walk away, Starsky did a mental replay. Maybe it was Emily's soft brown eyes framed by those long, black lashes, or the pleasing sound of her voice, but he would've never believed that he'd be so quick to accept an invitation to have his head examined. Taking one last glance at the shapely figure walking down the sidewalk, Starsky looked at her business card and noticed her office wasn't too far away. Sticking it in his pocket, he checked his bearings and continued on to where Nicky worked, picking up his pace as he heard the approaching siren from an ambulance.

.

Bree heard the knock at the door, but was too busy sticking the turkey in the oven. The front door cracked opened, and the visitor called out her name.

"Bree? Are you here?"

"In the kitchen, Ken!"

She shut the oven door and turned down the heat. Within a few seconds, Hutch came up from behind and gently squeezed her in a bear hug.

"Hey, beautiful," he said. "How's it going?"

Accepting the small peck on her temple, she quipped, "Slaving away at making you dinner, lover."

"Really? Guess I'll need to think of something appropriate to thank you with." He breathed in her ear while grinding his pelvis into her.

Bree turned around to face him. "I hope that's not the only thing you had in mind to give me," she said, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Now, what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn't?"

"Oh, probably a pretty normal one." She smiled and gave him a quick kiss.

"Well, thank goodness I'm not that normal." He nodded at the kitchen table.

Bree followed his glance and gasped with pleasure at the sight of the brightly colored present sitting there. She slipped out of his grasp and dove at the gift, hefting the large package with both hands.

Giving it a shake, she blushed, "I can't imagine what it is! When do I get to open it?"

"It's your Christmas present. I think that means you have to wait until…at least midnight."

Bree pretended to pout. "Okay, I'll wait. But that means you can't open yours either."

"I thought I was already looking at mine."

"Sex maniac."

"There's worse things I could be." Changing the subject, Hutch asked, "Heard anything from Starsky yet?"

Putting the present back down, she said, "Not since last night. Did he call you?" Bree mentally crossed her fingers, hoping her brother had followed through.

"Yeah. He sounded good."

Bree studied Hutch's face, and wasn't surprised to see a certain sadness there. "I think he just needs some time, Ken. It's been a hard year, on everybody."

"Well, they say these things come in waves. It'd just be nice to have it quit flooding all the time."

"I know. It'll change." Bree bit her lip. She hadn't forgotten about her own waves of apprehension lately. Pushing those thoughts aside, she turned her focus back to their evening plans. "I got some eggnog. Would you like some?"

"Sure. I don't think I've had any since last Christmas."

"It's really not something you'd want to drink any other time of the year." She took out the container from the refrigerator and poured the creamy liquid into two glasses. "You want some cinnamon on yours?"

"I thought my mother was the only one who liked it that way."

Bree sprinkled some of the spice in both glasses, and handed one to Hutch. "You don't talk too much about your folks. Or maybe it's you don't talk that much about your dad. Did you have a tough childhood?"

He smiled sympathetically. "Compared to yours, not hardly."

"I had some rough things happen, but at least my first mom didn't go around and pretend she knew how to be a parent. What I always thought was sad was the kids whose parents gave them everything they wanted, except love.

Hutch's smile flattened. "I got love…when my father wasn't too busy checking his business holdings, or mom wasn't hosting a dinner for the latest political candidate. And as long as I was grateful for those few times when I got some attention and acted like the proper son, everything was fine."

"And what exactly is a 'proper son'?"

"Someone who pretends his family is perfect—in every sense of the word."

"Ken, no family is perfect." Bree let out a sigh. "The first time I heard Rachel and Michael fighting, I ran to my room crying and started packing my clothes. I thought for sure Pop was going to leave and I'd be on my own again. But Davey came in, worried about me." She felt a smile form at the memory. "He said they argued like that a lot, but it wasn't anything to get upset about. It took a little time, but I realized that with family, you get to say what you mean. And you don't have to worry about hurting each other's feelings, because they're gonna love you no matter what."

Hutch took a sip from his glass. "Well, maybe that's true in theory, but it doesn't always apply. Trust me on that."

"You love David, don't you?"

Hutch shook his head, apparently confused. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Alright, you don't have to answer; I already know. But have you ever neglected to tell him something important because you were afraid of hurting his feelings?"

The puzzled look on his face softened. "No, not if it were important."

Bree stood in front of him. "And the reason you would is because he's family—to you."

"At least my relationship with Starsky goes both ways. What you're saying is that my family still gets to push me off to the side, because it's done out of some kind of twisted love."

Frustrated, Bree set her glass on the counter. "I think, whatever they've done, it wasn't necessarily a sign they didn't care," she said. "Now, maybe you don't see it like that, or maybe all they wanted to do was make your life hell, but you still got them, Ken." Bree glanced over at the telephone. "You can pick that up and talk to your Dad anytime you want to. Whether you want to cuss him out or tell him you love him is up to you. But you can still _do it_."

She brushed past him and went over to the stove, trying to hide the feelings of missing Pop that seemed to surface more around this time of year. And she did miss those lost opportunities. Michael Starsky had been the first male figure in her life who hadn't tried to molest her, or run the other way, afraid of accepting the responsibilities of fatherhood.

When she'd left home and found herself loved by Lorenzo, it hadn't mattered that he was a mob member. Like Pop, he'd never hit her or made her feel inadequate. Never questioning his motives, Bree accepted their relationship, even though in her heart, she'd known their love existed merely because it masqueraded as a shared sexual need. But back then, it had demanded very little from her, and she'd readily given what was expected. She'd learned long before that sex was something that could easily be separated from her soul and used as payment for something much more valuable—freedom and life. It had bought David's freedom from Dickie, and it had sustained her life when the street was ready to claim that as well.

Yet, all that giving had ultimately taken its toll. Eventually, Bree realized she was in danger of losing what was left of her soul; she'd needed to be something more than just a _comare_. When she'd told Lorenzo about her decision, she could've sworn she'd be tossed out with the garbage. But all he'd done was ask if she was sure. Before she'd walked out of his bedroom for the last time, he'd stroked his fingers through her hair and laid a kiss on her forehead. Bree had never looked back.

Now, standing in front of the stove, she automatically opened the oven door to check on the turkey, even knowing it was far too early for the meat to be done.

Hutch came up behind her. "Hey, I don't want to fight. Not tonight," he said in a husky tone.

Bree let herself relax. Ken was right. She didn't want to see the evening deteriorate into a pissing match. The strained relationship between Hutch and his father had taken decades to form, and she certainly wasn't going to convince him to mend it anytime soon.

"We've got a while before it's done. Got any ideas?"

Hutch took one arm and turned her around. "Plenty," he murmured.

In a flash, he dipped down and scooped Bree up in his arms. She started to protest, but decided she stood to enjoy his plan of action just as much as he would. Placing both arms around his neck, Bree snuggled her face against his neck. Just before they reached the bedroom, she peered over his shoulder and cast one last glance at the blinking lights on the Christmas tree.

.

Starsky stood outside of a large brick building and looked up at the metal sign hanging from the top ledge. The black lettering that spelled out "Liberty Trucking Company" was weathered and dull, but still readable against the grayish-white background. He thought about the last time he'd seen Nicky, but the recollection wasn't very clear. No big surprise since it was during the first week he'd been in the hospital, still hooked up to a respirator. What he did remember was the pained expression on Nicky's face—not at seeing his big brother fighting to stay on this side of the pearly gates, but from sitting fidgety and bored while keeping Rachel company at his bedside. Starsky couldn't blame him, though. It wasn't like he could hold up his end of any conversation back then, and Nick had been forced to deal not only with Mom, but Hutch also. Starsky had to grin. He was sure there'd been times when Hutch had threatened to put another Starsky in the hospital unless Nick tried to at least act like a concerned brother.

Shaking off the memory, Starsky walked through the front door and headed for the receptionist.

"Davey!"

Starsky turned and saw Nicky heading toward him at a gallop.

"Hey, Nicky," Starsky got out, just before his little brother collided with him with an enthusiastic hug. The pressure on his ribcage was a bit too much, and he deliberately pushed away from Nick's grasp. Seeing the confused look on his brother's face, Starsky quickly said, "Just a little sore there still, that's all."

"Jesus, Davey! It's been almost, what? Eight months?"

Starsky shot him a hard look. "Takes me a while to heal. I ain't as young as I used to be."

"Yeah, well, that's one thing I'll always have on you. So, how long are you in town for, huh? Last I talked to Ma, she didn't know how long you were gonna stay."

"Not sure. Maybe a few weeks."

"Really? That long?" Nick sounded more annoyed than surprised.

"What's a matter? 'Fraid I'll cramp your style?"

Nick frowned. "Don't flatter yourself. So what brings you over here? Checking to see I've really got a legit job?"

Starsky scanned over the interior of the small lobby. "Actually, I'm here to see what time you'll be coming over to Mom's tonight."

"Tonight?"

"You heard me. It's Christmas Eve, remember? And I don't think Mom's forgotten she's got _two_ sons."

"I know what day it is," Nick said defensively, placing both hands on his hips. "I was gonna come over tomorrow."

"Yeah? Well, plan on coming tonight, too."

"Hey, Davey, I already got plans—"

Starsky studied his brother's face, amazed at how well he could read it. "Call whoever it is and tell her you'll make it up some other time."

"Look, I'm a grown man, so I don't need you tellin' me what I can and can't do. I told ya I'll be there tomorrow…"

Taking a step forward, Starsky nearly butted chests with Nick. "I'm sure you're not hearing me right, so let me make myself clear. You call your fuck-of-the-week and tell her you're gonna spend some time with your family. And if you haven't gotten something nice for Mom already, you'd better get off work early and get to a good store before they all close."

Nicky nervously blew out a sigh and folded his arms over his chest. "Always good to see you too, big brother," he said cockily.

Starsky playfully patted Nick's cheek. "Mom's planning on having dinner about seven. Get there before then, and make sure you leave the attitude at the door."

When he turned to leave, Starsky heard his brother mumble something, but chose to ignore it. Walking back towards home, Starsky wondered if Nick would ever start acting like a grateful son. Not that he was perfect in that regard, but at least he didn't try to pretend. Gunther had painfully taught him that no matter how old you got, Moms were the best people to see when you woke up in a hospital bed. That, and a good partner.

.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Enjoy!

.

**Chapter 4**

**.**

Bree tried a few more poses in front of her bedroom mirror, trying to decide whether she liked the fur-lined collar on her new suede jacket better up or down. She ran her hands over the soft hide, loving the feel and smell, and the way the color accented the golden tints in her hair. She thought back a few months to when she'd given the jacket a cursory glance while shopping with Ken. One look at the price tag, though, had convinced her the coat was out of her budget. At the time, she didn't think Hutch had even noticed her preferences, but looking at her reflection in the glass now certainly said otherwise. Finally deciding which way she liked best, Bree strutted out to the living room.

"Turn around," Hutch said admiringly. As Bree paraded in front of him, he added, "Do you like it?"

"Are you kidding? I love it!"

"I wasn't sure about the size, but it looks good on you."

"It's perfect." She went over to the couch and leaned forward, planting a big kiss on his lips. "Thank you," she whispered.

"You're very welcome."

Bree reached over and grabbed the gift sitting next to Hutch. "This is for you."

He took it and smiled thinly. "I told you, I already got my present."

"I know, but this is just a little something extra."

Hutch carefully undid the wrapping, exposing a white cardboard shirt box. He opened it and lifted out a dark blue velour pullover. Raising the sweater up, he exclaimed, "Oh babe, it's beautiful."

"I couldn't resist the color," she said, stroking her fingers through the blond strands on his head. "It goes good with your eyes and hair. Plus, I like the way it feels."

"Better than what you usually like to feel?" he asked, taking her hand and placing it on his chest.

She nestled onto his lap, keeping a firm gaze on his eyes. What Bree saw, though, wasn't what she expected.

"You're really anxious about going back to work, aren't you?" Hutch's expression tightened, but still showed a soft edge. "Is it that you don't trust him well enough yet?"

"He's a good cop," Hutch answered, apparently knowing they were talking about Jeff Kent, "and I think he's got a good head on his shoulders." Then, more evenly, he added, "I'll be all right. Don't worry."

"I know…you're a big boy," Bree replied naturally. "Just be careful. Dave's gonna be pissed if you get hurt before he comes back."

The forced smile on Ken's face spoke volumes. _If he comes back_.

.

"Nicky, more stuffing?"

"No, Ma. I couldn't eat another bite."

Rachel set the glass bowl back down on the table, disappointment etched on her face. "You boys are eating like little birds. I made all this food, and for what? Is my cooking so bad?"

"It's delicious, Mom," Starsky remarked, drawing a dirty look from Nick. "I think I'm still full from breakfast."

Rachel considered his answer, then shook her head, clearly frustrated. "You have an excuse, Davey, but your brother—"

"What's his excuse?" Nick interjected.

"Just drop it," Starsky muttered, glancing at Nick but hoping Rachel would realize his answer was intended for her.

After he'd returned home, she had wasted no time in producing the bottle of pain medication that he'd inadvertently left on the bathroom counter, demanding to know its purpose. Reluctantly, Starsky had told her about the ongoing bouts of pain he was having from the scar tissue in his chest. Rachel had taken the news hard, not understanding why he hadn't told her sooner. Trying to appease her, he'd lied and said it was getting better, but he was beginning to suspect she hadn't believed a word.

"No! Why's it always different for him?" Nick spewed out.

"Nicky! Control yourself!" Rachel gave her youngest son a stern look. In a quieter tone, she said, "Davey's not feeling…it doesn't matter. If you're not hungry, then I can't force you to eat." She got up and grabbed her plate. "Boys, if you're done, go make yourselves comfortable in the living room. I'll start clearing the table."

As she walked into the kitchen, Starsky glared at Nicky. "When are you ever gonna grow up?" he growled.

"Oh, so it's always my fault, huh?"

"C'mon." Starsky stood up, nodding toward the other room. "I don't want Mom to hear."

Surprisingly, Nick followed him without complaint. When they entered the living room, Starsky sat on the couch while Nick plopped down on the nearby recliner.

"So, what's the problem this time?" he said gruffly.

Starsky sighed. Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered trying to tell his brother anything. The man had his own agenda, and it rarely included concern over any family member's welfare.

"Look, if I tell you, I want you to promise you'll keep it to yourself. Okay?" Starsky stared at him hard, trying to stress that he was serious.

To his credit, Nick seemed interested. "Sure. What's the big secret?"

Before answering, Starsky glanced over at the kitchen, making sure that Rachel was still well out of earshot.

"I need to get operated on again," he said, trying not to let his unhappiness show. "I've got some scar tissue that's keepin' things from healing right."

"Well, what's the big deal? I mean, it's not like you've never had surgery before." Nick's answer came across as flat as his expression.

"The deal is, they can't tell me if I'll be good enough to keep being a cop."

Nicky's eyebrows rose. "Oh, so _that's_ why you're here. You thinkin' about moving back home?"

Starsky groaned. "No, Nicky. That's not it." He shook his head. Maybe he should just go help Rachel with the dishes.

Before he could get off the couch, Nick threw out a hand. "Hey! Where you going? All right, so you don't want to move back home. I understand. I've been wanting to get out of here myself. You know, maybe someplace like Florida."

Feeling the frown on his face grow even deeper, Starsky finished getting up. "I'm gonna go help Mom."

Nick suddenly shot up out of his chair. "Davey," he started, looking concerned for the first time, "I'm not a heartless bastard. I could tell you were hurtin' this afternoon at the shop. So what _are_ you thinking about doing then, if this don't work out?"

Starsky lowered his gaze. "I dunno. There's not much out there, job wise."

"I could put in a word with my boss. They're always needing good drivers. You can handle a commercial rig, right?"

"I'll think about it," Starsky remarked. Driving an eighteen wheel truck was one of the last things he'd actually consider doing, but at least for once Nicky wasn't thinking about himself.

As he turned to head back to the kitchen, Nick grabbed his arm. "Hey," he said, "What's Hutch gonna do? I mean, if you quit being a cop?"

"Since when are you worried about him?" Starsky chided, knowing Nick's feelings about the blond barely reached toleration.

"Oh, I see. Little sister must be taking your place."

Starsky jerked his arm back. "What'dya mean by that?" he said, forcing himself to keep his voice low.

Shrugging his shoulders, Nick replied, "Ever since you and Hutch have known each other, you've been joined at the hip. Now you're all the way out here, by yourself…doing what, Davey?"

Starsky remained silent, but it wasn't out of choice.

"You certainly didn't come because of me," Nick continued. "And regardless of what you think, I do look after Mom. So, you running from somethin', man? Huh, _big brother_?"

"Davey, Nicky? Do you want some coffee?"

Rachel's timely interruption saved Starsky from saying something he probably shouldn't. Truth was, though, Nick had seen through his smoke screen. Maybe even enough to figure Hutch telling him 'good riddance' just before he left home.

"Sure, Mom, I'll have a cup," Nick hollered, then headed to the kitchen, taking his smirk with him.

"Shit, it's gonna be a long night," Starsky mumbled to himself. What Nick thought about his relationship with Hutch wasn't important, but he had seen one thing very clearly. Starsky was scared and showing more vulnerability than what he wanted to.

He thought about his upcoming appointment with Doctor Prather. She had made some time for him in her schedule the day after Christmas. He had a good feeling about her, but still wasn't sure if spilling out all of his problems to a shrink was going to help matters. For that to be accomplished, he'd need to be born under a different star or something, and turning back the clock was a skill even Sigmund Freud didn't possess.

Starsky stuck his hands in his pockets and slowly followed Nick to the kitchen, feeling burdened more than ever by a sense of loss even family couldn't restore.

.

Two days later, Starsky sat in a tiny waiting room on the second floor in Emily's office building. For the last five minutes, he'd been filling out the necessary medical forms, smiling to himself at one question in particular. Opting for the easiest response, he had scribbled in 'several' when asked about 'any previous surgeries?' With far less irony, he happily checked off 'no' to every question that asked whether he or a family member had a particular disease or not.

After finishing, he handed the paperwork to the receptionist, and sat back down. Glancing around the room, he studied the various paintings hanging on the walls. Most were of young ballerinas, either practicing in class or performing on stage. One picture portrayed an adult couple, the woman, looking like a delicate swan, being hoisted into the air by her very muscular male partner —his skin-hugging tights barely concealing his rather generous endowment. Starsky peeked down at his own package, only to toss his head back up rather hurriedly as the receptionist called his name.

Entering the main office, he was surprised to see that it was nearly twice the size of the waiting room. Instead of a vinyl-padded lounger surrounded by dark-paneled walls and a stuffy atmosphere, the room was lively and bright, lit naturally by two large windows set in one of the outer walls. Along with an office desk and floor lamp, the room was furnished with an inviting couch adorned with over-sized pillows, situated next to a matching recliner.

Emily stepped from behind her desk, offering her hand.

"David, I'm so glad you decided to come see me."

Starsky reached out and shook her hand, taking one more look around the room. If anything, he could've sworn he was in someone's living room rather than a doctor's office.

"I can see this isn't quite what you expected," Emily remarked.

"Uh, no. It's…nice. Very homey-looking."

"In order to help my patients, I believe they need to feel at ease."

"Yeah, well, you're probably onto something here," Starsky replied, glancing down at the thick cotton rug he was standing on.

"Would you like to have a seat?" she asked, motioning to the couch.

"Oh, sure." Starsky grimaced. His uneasiness was probably flashing like a neon sign right now, the last thing he wanted. Taking a few steps back, he picked up a pillow lying at the end of the couch and settled down in its place. The couch was firm, but immediately felt comfy. Setting the pillow off to the side, he began to relax. Perhaps this wasn't going to be as bad as he thought.

Emily took a seat in the recliner. She held a small notepad and pen in her hand, but her attention was strictly focused on him.

"So, tell me about what happened the other day. What's going on that makes you lose consciousness when you hear a car backfire?"

_Boy, she likes to get straight to the point. No wonder they charge so much an hour_.

"Well, it's kind of a long story," Starsky began, trying to keep eye contact with her. "Several months ago, someone tried to kill me and my partner. We're both cops. Not here, in California." He paused to collect his thoughts, along with another dose or two of courage. "Anyway, I got hit. Four times. It was, uh, pretty serious. For a while, they didn't think I was going to make it. Guess I fooled them." Starsky noticed he was looking at the floor. When he glanced back up at Emily, she was still looking directly at him.

"My, I'd say the fact that you're sitting here today certainly says a lot about you. But tell me, if this happened in California, why are you in New York?"

"Well, it's where I was born and grew up. My mom and brother still live here."

"Any other relatives?"

"I've got about a dozen uncles and aunts, and a sister. She lives where I do, in California."

"What about your dad?"

Starsky hesitated before answering. "He died when I was thirteen."

"That must have been hard on you, being so young. How did he die?"

"He, uh…was shot," Starsky involuntarily choked on the last word. "He was a cop, too."

Emily leaned back a little in her seat, crossing her legs. "It sounds like becoming a police officer would be the last thing you would want to do given what happened to your father."

Shrugging his shoulders, Starsky replied, "Well, wasn't a whole lot of jobs available for guys coming back from Vietnam back then. Just seemed like something I already had all the skills and training for."

"So you served in Vietnam. How long were you in country?"

Starsky perked up at her use of military slang. "Almost two years," he said, and snorted. "Seemed like a lifetime though."

"That was a long tour of duty. Most servicemen that I know of only stayed there for thirteen months."

"I got injured a couple of times. Broke my ankle once."

"When I was a teenager, I broke mine while jumping on a trampoline. It's a very painful injury."

"Yeah, well, I broke mine trying to beat a new trail through the jungle in record time. My platoon stumbled on a group of VC, and they weren't expecting guests for dinner. Guess it was a good thing, though. After a few days, they let me and another wounded GI go. Spent a long time recuperating in an army hospital, but I never saw any of the other guys again."

Emily paused for a long moment. "You mentioned earlier that someone tried to kill you and your partner. Was he hurt also?"

"No, he was… he wasn't hurt."

"Are you still working with him?"

For the first time, Starsky felt uncomfortable answering one of her questions.

"Well, technically yes. I mean, we're still partners."

"Technically?" she stressed.

Taking a hard swallow, Starsky said, "Right now, I'm on a leave of absence. When I got hurt…there's just some more surgery I need, and after that, hopefully, I'll be back working with Hutch."

"Hutch? Is he your partner?"

Starsky brightened up a little. "Yeah, he's my best friend. We met in the academy. After I made detective, he got his shield, too. We've been working together for almost nine years."

Emily smiled, then set her notepad down on the end table next to her.

"David, can I be honest with you?"

Starsky felt himself draw back. Was she about to tell him he was wasting his time talking to her? Or was she going to say he needed to be committed somewhere?

"Sure," he answered uneasily.

"From what you've told me, you've plainly experienced some very traumatic incidents during your adult life. And I have no doubt there's probably more that you haven't mentioned yet. Have you ever heard the term 'battle fatigue'?"

"Is that kinda like shell-shocked?"

"Yes, precisely. When you were recovering at the army hospital, did you ever talk to anyone about what happened when you were captured?"

"No."

"Was that because they didn't offer to talk to you, or because you didn't want to?"

"Um, neither, I guess. What would've been the point? It was a war. Shit hap…oh, sorry."

"That's okay," she said, "I don't get offended very easily."

"Well, like I was sayin', we weren't over there playing games. We were trying to kill them and they were trying to kill us. Shit happens, end of story."

Emily leaned forward. "Yes, war is hell. Especially on young men and women that haven't experienced anything like that before. A lot of veterans try to put those memories deep inside some part of their mind and hope they'll never surface again. Sometimes that works. But in your case, I don't think the war has ever ended."

Starsky looked at her, part of him relieved she might have discovered an explanation for his feelings, the other part tensing in fear because he didn't want to know the answer.

"From what I'm hearing, you've never come to terms with any of these traumatic events you've described to me. For instance, you have trouble just saying the word 'shot.' Have you realized that?"

"I guess not," he mumbled.

"Let me ask you something. And I want an honest answer. If we could wave a magic wand, and make you all well again, what would you do?"

Stumbling over his own thoughts, Starsky racked his brain for an answer. He wanted to say "go back to being a cop with Hutch," but he couldn't make his heart, or his mouth, cooperate. As he sat there, seeking some sort of a decent response, nothing came—except tears. Emily reached over and picked up a box of Kleenex from the end table. She pulled a few out and handed them to him.

After giving him a moment, she said, "Tell you what. I'm going to end our session right now. I won't charge you for it, but I'd like to see you again in a few days. In the meantime, I want you to think about a few things."

Starsky finished dabbing his eyes. He looked at her curiously.

"First, where do you see yourself ten years from now? Are you still working as a cop, or is there something else you'd rather be doing? And second, what makes you happy?"

"That's it?" he asked.

Showing a smile, she replied, "I think once you start thinking about it, you'll find out some things you've never realized before. So, I'll see you in a few days, all right?"

Starsky stood up, mimicking Emily's movement. Several thoughts were still racing through his mind, but it was clear his appointment was over. "Thanks, doc," he said, with an appreciative nod.

"You're welcome. Take care, now."

Starsky stepped out of the building and felt the brisk slap of cold air hit his face. For once, he was glad he was on foot. The twenty-minute walk he had ahead of him would provide some time to think more about what Emily had said. He'd never realized it before, but in a way, Vietnam had never ended. The only things that had changed were the terrain and the enemy. Jungle thicket had been replaced by city streets and alleyways, the Viet Cong substituted for addicts and criminals—along with powerful, pompous men who wore three-piece suits but still reeked of scum.

Not wanting to dwell on that subject, Starsky turned his thoughts to Emily's other question.

_What makes you happy? _

_Feeling safe, being safe. Not worrying about where the next bullet is coming from._

Starsky looked down at his feet hitting the sidewalk.

_And where does Hutch fit in? Am I still gonna have him by my side in ten years? Making me feel safe?_

_._

_TBC_


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks everyone, for reading!

.

**Chapter 5**

**.**

Hutch ripped out the sheet from his typewriter. Frustrated at his third attempt to write a simple assault report, he wadded up the paper and threw it at the trash can. His actions didn't go unnoticed.

"You sure you don't want me to finish that?" Kent asked.

Jamming another blank page into the machine, Hutch replied, "No, I've got it. Is there any coffee left?"

Kent held up the cup he was holding and swirled it in a tight circle. "Sorry. I got the last few drops."

Hutch let out a loud sigh. Not that having some coffee would've improved things, anyway. Clearly, the city's crime rate hadn't been affected by the holidays; their case load had nearly doubled during the past week. As a result, his usually comprehensive reports had narrowed down to a version of something Jack Webb would be proud of. _Just the facts, ma'am_. And since he'd only had one day off in the last nine, his attitude and concentration were both ready to take a flying leap.

"Want me to go downstairs and get you some?" Kent asked.

"Huh?"

"Coffee. Downstairs. Want some?"

Hutch considered the offer, but at this point, nothing short of a two-week Hawaiian vacation was going to suffice.

"Just forget it. I'll be done with this in just a few minutes anyway. Then, we _**are**_ calling it a day."

Kent just smiled. "I think you've forgotten where you work and what you do."

At that moment, the door to Dobey's office flew open.

"Hutchinson. Kent. Got a report of a dead body in the alley behind 1021 Wilshire. You're up."

The younger detective raised his mug as if proposing a toast. "See what I mean?" he quipped.

"Capt'n," Hutch groaned, "You've gotta be kidding."

Dobey straightened his frame, keeping his eyes glued on his senior man. "Hutchinson, I wish I could get paid for being funny. Unfortunately, I'm only here right now because the commissioner thinks I'm his personal whipping boy." Pointing an index finger, he waved it wildly at both detectives. "Now get out there and start making me look good, or you and your partner are gonna find yourselves working as school crossing guards!"

With that, the captain returned to his office, slamming the door in the process.

"Your car or mine?" Kent offered, as if to soften this latest blow.

Hutch yanked the report out of the typewriter. "The way I'm feeling right now, you'd better drive. I'm likely to run over the first idiot that gets in my way."

.

Twenty minutes later, they pulled up behind the black and white parked in front of the Palm Clinic on Wilshire. Hutch and Kent got out and were met by two patrol officers who led them around to the back alley. The murder victim was lying about ten feet from the rear exit, the body partially covered by a white sheet.

"According to one of her coworkers, Francine Allen got off work around nine o'clock last night," one of the patrolmen told Hutch. "She'd been finishing some end of the year reports and was the only one in the building. We got a hold of her boyfriend. He said she called him just before she left to come home."

Hutch bent down and lifted the sheet off of Francine's head. She looked to be in her early twenties and, from what he could still see of her face, was very pretty.

"You got the information written down?" Kent asked the officer.

The man ripped out a page from his note pad and handed it to him. "Sure. Everything's there. Names, phone numbers. Whoever this was, really did a number on her."

Kent glanced at the paper, then turned to Hutch. "Should we start with the boyfriend?"

Hutch was still kneeling by the girl, trying to recall some details of another case that had caught his attention not too long ago.

"Hutch?"

Suddenly, he remembered.

Springing back up, he pointed a finger at Kent. "That case Malony and Peters had a couple of weeks ago."

Kent looked confused. "Sorry, Hutch. I only transferred a couple of days ago."

Dropping his hand, Hutch realized his mistake. "Oh yeah, that's right."

He didn't know why, but somehow he'd thought Starsky was there with him. Shaking off the slip-up, he said, "About two weeks ago, they had a similar call. Young girl, working late at a clinic, attacked and killed before she made it to her car."

"You thinking these two cases might be related?"

"Worth a look at least," Hutch answered. "Let's see if we can catch those two back at the precinct."

.

The view out of the bay window had changed very little in the past hour. A couple of snow showers had come and gone, mimicking the few pedestrians that were out in the winter weather. Starsky crossed his feet where they rested on the wide window sill, then took another sip of warm tea from the mug in his hand. A quick glance at his watch indicated he had another hour before his appointment with Emily.

While sitting in the quiet room, he'd been reflecting on some things that had been running through his mind lately—the pros and cons of going back to work, his relationship with Hutch, not to mention where he would be in another decade. The possibilities with all those issues eventually proved too numerous, though, so he'd decided to concentrate on what made him happy. There were only two answers to that—Terri and Hutch.

Both had made him feel complete, as a partner, human being, and a man. One had been his lover, a heartbeat away from being his wife. The other was his closest friend, so close that the line that separated them into two distinct people was constantly blurred. And now that one was gone forever, how long would it be before a twist of fate, or another lunatic with a gun and a score to settle, ripped Hutch out of his life, too?

The sudden pressure of a hand on his shoulder made him jump.

"Sorry, Davey! I didn't mean to scare you," Rachel said, giving him a squeeze.

Wiping some of the spilled tea from his lap, Starsky said, "'S'okay, Mom. I didn't hear you come in."

"You've been sitting here for a long time. Are you not feeling well?"

"I'm fine. Just been thinking." He went back to looking out the window.

Rachel came around in front and sat down on the landing. "You have another appointment today, with that doctor?"

"Uh-huh."

Rachel clasped her hands together, as though she were trying to collect her thoughts, and sat quietly for a few moments.

"I don't like to see you in pain," she finally admitted. "But there doesn't seem to be anything I can do, except hope that you will get better."

"Ma, I told ya, the pills just help me sleep. I'm doing good, really."

Inside, though, his conscience was turning inside out. He wanted to tell her the truth, but knowing Rachel's fears made it impossible. God knows she'd probably spent countless nights worrying about him when he _**wasn't**_ hurt or injured. If she knew everything that was going on right now, her own health would probably suffer. No, this time the less said, the better.

"It isn't the pain you have in your chest that I'm worried about, Davey. But maybe this woman, she can help you." Rachel stood up. "Today is when I go to Pauline Struder's. You remember her, don't you? She slipped on the ice and fell last month. Broke her hip, poor woman. But I'll be back in time for dinner, yes?"

Before she walked away, Starsky reached out and grabbed her hand. "Mom…how 'bout we go out for dinner tonight? My treat."

"Really?" she asked excitedly.

"Sure. Anywhere you want."

She smiled at him before she picked up her coat and went to the front door. As she slipped outside, Starsky watched as she walked down the snow-packed sidewalk until she was out of sight. He thought about what she'd said about Emily, and the way she had said it. Rachel was feeling left out, probably just like Hutch was. Both wanted to help him, but he wasn't letting either of them try. He was fortunate to have people who really loved and cared about him, yet, for some reason, that wasn't enough. Hell, he wasn't really even sure if he loved himself anymore.

_Yeah, well, that's the truth. Can't wait to see myself shirtless in the mirror every day..._

Starsky bit down on his lip, and tried to shake the negative thoughts out of his mind. He'd caught himself thinking about the scars plenty of times before, which had set off that awful night a while back. Too much thinking while drinking, never a good combination when there was a loaded gun within easy reach, and worse of all, Hutch had been the one hurt by Starsky's actions. He'd been there before; left alone to deal with the suicide of a partner, but that still wasn't enough to keep Starsky from wanting to pull the trigger.

_March 3, 1971_

_Starsky cursed at himself. He could hear the phone ringing inside his apartment, but couldn't coordinate his fingers fast enough to unlock the front door. Finally succeeding, he made a mad dash to the phone. As he picked it up, a wave of relief settled in when he didn't hear a dial tone._

"_Hello?" he answered breathlessly._

"_Dave?"_

_Starsky hesitated for a moment, not sure he recognized his partner's soft voice over the pounding of his own heartbeat._

"_Pete? That you?"_

"_Yeah. Hey, I must've caught you at a bad time. I'll…I'll catch you tomorrow, man."_

_Something about the man's voice sent an uneasy feeling through Starsky. "No, I just got back from the movies with Chelsea. What's up?"_

_The long pause coming from the phone line increased his anxiety. "It's nothing…look, I'm sorry I bothered you," Pete mumbled out. "It's late…I'm sorry, Davey."_

"_Pete, what's going on?" When he didn't hear a response, Starsky said, "Stay right there, I'm comin' over."_

_Before he hung up the phone, Starsky heard, "No, it's okay…really. I…take care, _vato_."_

_The click on the other end sent Starsky racing back out the door. He revved up the recently tuned engine in his '68 Camaro, and felt no remorse over leaving a large cloud of smoke, and probably a good chunk of rubber, on the street in front of his driveway._

_Ten minutes later, he arrived at Ramos' duplex. His partner's pickup truck was parked in the driveway, but there were no lights on in the house. Starsky pulled his gun out and snuck up to the front door. He stood off to the side and tried the door knob. It was unlocked. For a moment he debated whether or not to knock, but finally decided to announce himself. Not hearing a response, he slowly pushed open the door. On high alert, Starsky carefully scanned the apartment as if it were a crime scene, examining every detail. He took a couple of steps inside and called out Pete's name. That's when he smelled it—the faint odor of gun powder._

_The next few days passed by in a blur. Finding the hastily-written note. Pete saying he was sorry. Telling his family what had happened. The funeral…_

_Then came the matter of going back to work. Starsky thought he could do okay working alone on the night shift, when fewer employees were in the squad room. Dobey initially balked at the idea, but eventually agreed, provided Starsky stuck to a desk and only responded to calls if requested by another detective. Reluctantly, he'd agreed to the captain's terms, but within a week, Starsky was longing to get back out on the street. _

_One night, he accepted an invitation to Dobey's for dinner. Afterwards, the two men sat out on the back porch, talking far into the evening. They covered a lot of things; which beer was the best, the married couple's plan to give Cal another sibling, the mayor's new policy on hiring minorities. And then Dobey told Starsky he was getting a new partner. At first, the idea of being paired up with some newbie detective, eager to be out of uniform and thinking he'd be the next Dirty Harry, made Starsky cringe. But what he feared the most was figuring out how to get personally attached to someone he'd have to trust his life to again. That fear instantly vanished when Dobey announced the new guy's name—Kenneth Hutchinson._

"_Hutch? He made detective?"_

_Dobey nodded his head. "Yeah, he's been working the west end in Burglary for the last few months."_

_Starsky took a sip of beer while thinking about his next question. "So, why does he want to come over here to Homicide?"_

_Dobey raised his eyebrows. "You're the detective. You can't figure out why?"_

_Shrugging his shoulders, Starsky shook his head. "That's a nice area of town. I thought his wife liked it over there."_

"_Well, it's a good thing you're getting paired up, then. You two can get caught up on the latest news. Hutch told me they've separated again."_

Starsky smirked, thinking about that time. After graduating from the academy, Hutch had elected to work in Bay City's Heights division, the closest thing to LA's Beverly Hills. As the top cadet in their class, he'd been given the choice to work in any precinct he wanted to. Although Hutch had never said so, Starsky believed to this day that Vanessa had compelled him to choose that area as the two rookies had planned to stay together and work the inner city. Starsky always had the feeling Vanessa thought he was trying to come between her and her husband, and as a result, she'd done everything she could to keep Hutch under her thumb.

But she was gone now, just like Pete and Terri. Slowly, but surely, everyone that mattered in their lives had been taken away. Maybe it was the job. Maybe neither he nor Hutch was destined to live happily ever after. Shaking his head, Starsky glanced once more at his watch. He lifted his feet off of the window ledge and got up. He certainly didn't have any answers—perhaps Emily did.

.

Bree pulled up and parked below her upstairs apartment. She got out of the car and went around to unlock the trunk. A small sigh escaped as she glanced at the two full bags of groceries inside. Picking up the heaviest one first, she nudged it onto her hip and took hold of the other one. Shutting the trunk lid, Bree started up the steps. Halfway to the second landing, she froze. She snapped around, instantly prepared to confront the threatening presence she'd sensed coming up behind her.

Nothing. She remained absolutely still, scanning the stairs and the parking lot, tensing every muscle to listen for the slightest noise. Except for the soft sounds of traffic in the distance, everything was quiet. Gathering her wits, she hurried up the remaining steps. When she reached her front door, she hastily dropped the grocery bags and fumbled with the key, unable to fit it into the lock without taking her eyes off of the staircase. After what seemed like an eternity, the handle finally turned and she shoved open the door. Using her foot, she slid the bags across the threshold, then closed the door and locked herself inside.

Without thinking, she ran to the phone and dialed Ken's number at work. Not getting an answer, she hung up and dialed the emergency number. She tried keeping her voice calm while talking to the operator, but the panic wouldn't stay down, especially when she couldn't describe who or what had scared her. The female dispatcher was sympathetic, though, and immediately contacted Zebra Three. Within minutes, Bree heard Hutch frantically knocking outside.

She flung open the door, and dove into his arms, finally able to release the pent up tension.

"Hey, what's going on? Was someone out there?" Hutch asked, rubbing circles on her back with his hand.

"You're gonna think I'm crazy," Bree said. She lifted her head off of his chest and caught a glimpse of someone standing in the doorway. She stiffened as she peered over his shoulder, trying to get a better look.

Hutch turned sideways, probably sensing Bree's apprehension. "Oh, sorry. Bree, this is Jeff Kent. Jeff, this is Breanna."

Jeff stepped forward, sticking out his hand. "Hi," he announced, "pleased to meet you."

He was definitely very young-looking. His neatly feathered, light brown hair framed a handsome face with almond-shaped eyes and dimples on both cheeks. Bree thought his picture would go perfectly on the cover of Teen Beat magazine.

"Same here," she said and shook Jeff's hand. She glanced back at Hutch, feeling a little embarrassed now that there was an audience.

"What happened, Bree?" Hutch repeated, still looking concerned.

"I got home, from the grocery store. I…I just felt something coming up behind me on the stairs. It scared me, Ken. It really scared me."

"Did you see anyone? Hear anything?" he pressed.

Bree shook her head. "I know it sounds stupid." She held out her hand, keeping it parallel to the floor. "But I'm still shaking."

Hutch pulled her in and hugged her tightly.

"Has this, uh, ever happened to you before?" Jeff asked, his voice sounding low and unsure.

Bree separated from Hutch. She wasn't sure how to answer that question without prompting several more. Thankfully, Hutch came to her rescue.

"She senses things, at times. Things that most people aren't aware of, but they're real."

"Oh…I see." Jeff's answer sounded anything but convinced.

Feeling more empathetic for Hutch now than herself, Bree remarked, "I think I'll be okay. Sorry for hitting the panic button."

Hutch showed a big smile. "Hey, you know we like being knights in shining armor. Are you sure you're gonna be okay?"

Bree nodded her head.

"You call me anytime you need to, got that?"

"Okay, Sir Lancelot."

"See you when I get off," Hutch murmured, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

Taking a step away from Hutch, Bree glanced over at Jeff. "It was nice to meet you," she offered.

"Anytime," Jeff replied and smiled politely.

Once they got back to the car, Hutch waited until Jeff got in and closed his door.

"I know you don't know Bree, or me, very well, for that matter," he began tersely. "But there's something we need to get straight…"

.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you for the reviews, they really mean a lot!

.

**Chapter 6**

**.**

From of the corner of his eye, Hutch noticed Kent tensing. True to the young detective's nature, he looked like he sensed trouble coming.

"You might think I'm only saying this because me and her are an item," Hutch began, glancing up at Bree's apartment. "But that's not why. I don't understand how she does it, or what it's like having that ability, but Bree hears and sees people that are, well…dead."

He turned to face Kent, but the man's gaze was still focused straight ahead.

"Without going into a lot of detail, that gift of hers saved my life and Starsky's not too long ago. That was enough to convince me. Now, whatever your beliefs are, I'm not trying to change them. But when it comes down to accepting what she says—trust me—you'd better do it."

"So, did she call you because of a dead boogeyman, then?"

Hutch felt his anger build. He wasn't ready to jump down Kent's throat, but he was pretty damn close.

"Whatever or whoever was there isn't the point. If she says she—"

"Yeah, I know. I heard you the first time, Hutch. I didn't stand there and call her crazy, but I'm not going to pretend that whatever she thinks she saw was real, either. I don't believe in ghosts, or goblins, or things that go bump in the night." Kent turned the key and started up the engine. "Look, she seems like a really nice girl, and if she did something that saved your life, well, that makes her okay in my book. But you're right; you're not going to change my beliefs." He turned the wheel and prepared to pull out into traffic. "So, where to?"

Hutch grimaced. Truthfully, he couldn't disagree with anything Kent had said, and he had spoken with just enough respect to dodge a heated response. Still, there was something familiar about his attitude, and Hutch had no problem figuring it out. The conversation sounded like a repeat of one several years ago—between two young detectives who loved butting heads, too.

.

"David?"

Starsky looked up from the magazine he was reading and saw Emily's receptionist standing by the open hallway door. Tossing the periodical down, he stood and followed her into the doctor's office. Once again, Emily greeted him warmly and let Starsky settle on the sofa before she sat in the chair opposite.

"So, have you been thinking about those questions from our last visit?" she asked, briefly tugging at the hem on her skirt.

"Yeah, a little."

"Okay," Emily said, "let's say it's 1990. Where are you and what are you doing?"

Starsky fidgeted in his seat, already feeling uneasy. "Well, I didn't bring my crystal ball with me," he quipped, hoping to see a smile in response. When one didn't appear, he warily continued. "Guess I don't got an answer for that. A lot can happen, you know."

"I see. How about the other question, then? What makes you happy?"

"Friends," he quickly answered. "Good friends. People you don't gotta explain yourself to."

"Do you have those kinds of friends?"

"Yeah. One, at least."

Emily glanced down at her notepad. "Would that be your partner? Hutch?"

"Uh-huh."

"What makes him such a good friend?"

"You want the abbreviated version, or the long one?" he said, only half-joking.

"Whichever one you prefer."

He put his hands together and heaved out a sigh. "Well, for starters, he'd risk his life for me. We argue sometimes, and he pokes fun at me. But if I ever need him, he's always there, no questions asked."

"Have you ever been afraid to ask him for something?"

Starsky scrunched up his face. "What do you mean?"

"Was there was a time when you needed his help, or his advice, but were afraid to ask for it?"

_Just say 'no', Davey. _

"Maybe…once."

Emily leaned slightly forward. "Tell me about that time."

_Oh, fuck! _

Afraid that if he didn't answer right away, he never would, Starsky pushed back the urge to keep silent.

"This last time I was in the hospital…I really needed to, you know, get up and take a piss. But I didn't want him to see me trying to walk, 'cause I really couldn't unless someone helped me. Anyway, I kept waiting and waiting, hoping he'd go take a walk or something. Man, my bladder was killin' me." Starsky studied Emily's face. "Kind of silly, huh?"

"Why were you afraid for him to see that you needed help?"

"Not really sure. I guess I just didn't want him to see me like that."

Nodding thoughtfully, Emily asked, "Has Hutch ever been shot?"

"Yes," he answered quietly.

"Then wouldn't it be fair to say that he knows what that's like?"

"Of course, it hurts! But that's not what I meant."

"Which is?"

Starsky glared at her. He knew what she was after, but he really didn't want to go there.

"I meant I didn't want him feeling guilty, for not getting shot like I was." Starsky looked down at the floor. "I know he blames himself. He does that, a lot," he explained. "And it doesn't matter how many times I tell him it wasn't his fault. He still thinks there was something he could've done—well, that's a crock! He was on the other side of the car, for cryin' out loud. I guess he thinks he should've been able to jump over the roof and shoot that son of a bitch right between the eyes!"

He stopped and, suddenly conscious of the silence in the room, looked at Emily. She was still staring at him, one leg swinging gently as it lay draped over the other knee. Starsky started to wonder about what he'd just said. What _had_ he just said?

"Did I say something wrong?" he finally asked, sheepishly.

Emily smiled. "I don't think Hutch is the only one carrying around some guilt."

Starsky shook his head. "You might want to explain that one, coach."

She put her notepad down and leaned forward in her seat.

"All right. The incident in the hospital. Did you feel you really fooled him?"

He frowned a little. "I thought so. I mean, I don't think I looked like I was hurtin'."

"Suppose he did notice. How do you think he must've felt?"

A wave of shame flashed through as Starsky realized Emily's objective. "So, I'm blaming him and he's…blaming me?"

Emily picked her notepad back up. "Ask yourself this," she said. "Why go to such an extreme to hide your feelings from the one friend who you trust implicitly?"

Starsky paused for a moment before answering. "It's just that…maybe because…"

When he didn't continue, Emily pressed on. "Because of what?"

"We've both gotten hurt, you know? But lately—well, let's just say I've had way too many sponge baths. Right before this last _assassination attempt_—" he said curtly, hoping to keep the appalling memory from reappearing, "I…"

Starsky let the last word trail off. He took a deep breath, needing some time for the emotional buildup beginning to pound against the inside of his head to diffuse. He desperately searched the room for a focal point, something he could lock onto for support. Unfortunately, there wasn't any such target—only the person sitting in front of him.

"I was kidnapped by some thugs who wanted me and Hutch out of the way so their damn drug shipment could come in. They ended up doin' a real number on me," Starsky said, as the vision of his wallet and shield soaking in a puddle of blood quickly resurfaced. "Got shot a couple of times then, too."

He paused to study Emily's face. Her expression hadn't changed and she still looked like she was waiting for an answer. Unwillingly, he continued. "I guess what I'm tryin' to say is, we…Hutch and me, need to depend on each other. A lot of times, it comes down to forgettin' about yourself and only thinking about your partner…and I don't think I can do that anymore."

Emily let out a small sigh. "Well, we're finally getting somewhere."

"Yeah?" Starsky remarked, keeping his voice low. "Mind telling me?"

"If you don't like the fact that Hutch feels guilty for something that isn't his fault, why do you feel guilty for getting shot?" Emily asked, her intonation firm.

"Why do I…?" Starsky folded his arms across his chest, and tried to follow Emily's logic. "I never said I felt responsible for what happened to me."

"You said you're the one getting hurt the most lately, and because of that you can't hold up your end any longer. I'd say that sounds like you're feeling responsible."

Starsky wanted to object, but nothing Emily had said was untrue. "Okay, let's say you're right, that I wasn't smart enough to keep from gettin' hurt. Now what?"

Emily shifted in her seat. "David, do you know what's going to happen to you on your way home today?"

"Like, am I gonna get run over by a bus?"

"Yes, that could be one thing," she said, smiling, "But what if you stopped at the store, and got shot by an armed robber who didn't like guys with curly hair. Explain to me how you could've kept that from happening?"

Smirking, he answered, "I think we both know the answer to that."

"And what is the answer? That bad things only happen to cops? How do you rationalize the fact that horrible and unfair things happen every day to ordinary citizens? Is it because they're not smart enough to avoid them?"

"Okay, doc, you win," Starsky conceded. "So what's your solution?"

"That's my question to you, David. What's _your_ solution to this? You've obviously worked very hard to recover from your injuries. Was that so you could return to police work?"

"Yes," he answered meekly.

Emily laid her notepad on her lap, and clasped both hands together. "Are you doing it for your benefit, or Hutch's?"

"Both." Starsky felt himself cringe. Something was telling him he'd better be honest with her. "Look, I've already been back to work. It's a long story, but some issues came up and now I…I don't know if I'm doin' the right thing anymore."

"What kind of issues?"

"I'm afraid." Starsky almost startled himself by answering so fast. "Afraid of getting shot again. Of being so paranoid that something's gonna happen to me that I forget to watch out for my partner, and he gets hurt—" Starsky gazed down to the floor. "That if I quit being a cop, I lose Hutch."

"Lose Hutch?" Emily asked.

Starsky uncrossed his arms and let them fall down into his lap. "When we do stuff off duty, it's because we need the down time. It's nice to just hang out and not be chasing some flake down a dark alley or dodging…bullets. If I stop being a cop, whether Hutch quits or keeps on working, we won't need that anymore."

"You can't be friends unless you're both cops?"

"I'm sure we'd still be friends…just not like before."

Starsky eyed Emily nervously as she stopped to glance at the scenery from one of the windows. _She's probably getting ready to call it good and kick me out the door,_ he thought. _Guess I can't blame her. Nobody wants to deal with a psycho cop…ex-cop, that is._

"I think you realize there are no guarantees that if you keep working as a police officer, you won't get hurt again," Emily said, returning her attention to him. "But if you've been released to go back to work, what makes you think you can't adequately back up your partner anymore?"

Starsky gave the question some thought. "Because there was so much damage this last time," he said. "I've got a lot of scar tissue. The doctors say I need more surgery, but they can't guarantee I'll heal up good enough to go back out on the street."

"Oh, I see." Pausing for a moment, she went on softly. "David, I can't tell you what you need to do. I can't, the doctors can't…even Hutch can't. I _can_ tell you, though, with absolute certainty, that unless you figure out what'll make you happy, nothing else will be the right choice. I understand your relationship with Hutch is very important, but if he's as good of a friend as you say he is, he wouldn't want you to do something strictly for his sake."

"I thought that's what psychiatrists do, tell people what they should be thinking."

Emily smiled. "I think that's the problem here. You're doing too much _thinking_ and not enough _doing_. Right now, your health should be the main issue. I think you're putting this surgery off because you're afraid they won't be able to put Humpty Dumpty back together this time."

Starsky winced at the reference, but Emily was right.

"Okay, but if I go get operated on again," he said, disheartened, "shouldn't I be prepared for what's going to happen if they can't fix me?"

"What's 'going to happen' isn't under _your_ control, only your _reaction_ to it."

Frowning, Starsky replied, "Terrific."

"Look, I'm not suggesting that you have to be happy that life has thrown you so many curves. But putting off your surgery because of what may or may not happen isn't helping to resolve your problems."

"Yeah, okay. But if I can't keep being a cop, then what?"

"Then you'll find what other road you need to take and you'll be able to decide knowing you did everything you could."

"You make it sound so simple."

"No, it's not. But it's reality. I'm sure as a cop you fight hard to right what's wrong; to cure the injustices of the world. Well, sometimes you can, and other times, you have to admit you can't. But that doesn't mean you stop fighting, or putting your talents to good use. Why don't you take a few days and think about what we talked about today. I'd be happy to see you again, if you still want to talk."

"Sure." Starsky smiled even though he had to force his lips to do so. He really didn't want to go. If nothing else, Emily was at least making sense, and considering how out of kilter his life had been lately, her logic was a welcomed relief. Maybe talking to a shrink wasn't that big of a deal.

Starsky rose from the couch and offered his hand to shake with Emily's. "Thanks, Doc," he said.

"Take care, David."

As he stepped out of the building, Starsky felt something cold and fierce hit him in the chest. Only it wasn't the winter wind slicing through the air around him. This feeling was different, like a bad omen coming to pay a visit, and it felt personal. Very personal.

.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note:** Just a word of warning, this chapter contains a sexual assault scene.

.

**Chapter 7**

**.**

Articles of colored clothing floated, partially submerged in the grey water. The secondhand washing machine had screeched out a grinding noise just before giving up the ghost and now, looking at the soaken mess, Bree could only think of one thing—laundromat run. _At ten-fucking-thirty at night. So much for going to bed before midnight._

Resigned to the inevitable, she slid an empty hamper over in front of the washer and pulled out the drenched garments one at a time. Finished with the wet chore, she slipped on her new suede jacket, grabbed her wallet and hauled the heavy hamper downstairs. She set it upright in the trunk of her car to keep the pooling water from spilling out and staining the carpeting. Unable to close the trunk lid, she left it open and went to unlock the driver's door.

A sudden impact from behind sent her flying forward against the car, causing her head to smack hard on the Mustang's roof. Knocked dizzy, she lost all sense of balance and started falling to the ground. When a muscular arm caught her, Bree struggled to break free but her uncoordinated movements made the attempt useless. Increasingly disoriented, she tried to call for help but her assailant swiftly clamped a large hand over her mouth. A second arm snaked in and wrapped around her waist, effectively trapping both arms at her sides.

Completely helpless, Bree was dragged backwards until reaching the rear of a large car. One arm let go and within seconds, the lid of the trunk sprang open. With her mouth free again, Bree took in a deep gasp. She tried to scream, but her aching lungs and racing heart quickly seized all the air. Using the last of her strength, Bree desperately kicked at the man behind her, but when a blunt object dug into the side of her head, she immediately froze.

"You make one more sound, bitch, and I'm gonna blow your fuckin' brains out. Capisce?" the man growled.

The arm around her chest tightened. She nodded her head minutely, hoping her answer would be understood.

"Good. Now keep your head down and get inside that trunk. If I see one white speck of an eyeball, your brain becomes instant mush. Got that?"

Bree felt his arm tighten even harder, and again she nodded her head, too afraid to utter a sound. Slowly, the grip around her loosened. Doing as she was told, Bree stared straight ahead and began to crawl into the trunk. Halfway in, a hard push knocked her sideways. Her head hit the edge of the trunk, making her yelp in pain. One more violent shove sent her crashing to the floor. Everything went black as the lid slammed down with a whoosh.

Rapidly sucking in lungfuls of air, Bree tried to calm down. A heavy odor of gasoline and oil permeated the air around her, and the sickly stench turned her stomach. The floor beneath her tipped a little, followed shortly by the sound of the engine starting. With her head spinning in a mixture of pain and dizziness, she could hardly get her bearings. Raising herself up on all fours, Bree tumbled backwards when the vehicle lurched forward. Left with no other choice, she stayed prone on the grimy floor and fought hard to control her terror. _What was happening? Why was she being kidnapped?_ Shaking in fear, she reached out and fumbled around in the darkness. If she could find a tire iron, something to use as a weapon…maybe she'd have a fighting chance.

.

Hutch went in to Dobey's office and tossed one last report on his desk. As he walked back out into the squad room, he glanced up at the clock—almost eleven-thirty. With a forlorn look he just stood there, as if trying to decide what to do next.

"You look like you just lost your best friend," Jeff commented, punching a few letters on his typewriter.

"Huh?" Hutch replied.

Jeff stopped working and leaned back in his chair. "You look tired. You still going over to Bree's tonight?" he asked.

"Probably not; I was hoping to be out of here by ten. She's probably already in bed by now."

"Wasn't that your ultimate destination, anyhow?" Jeff quipped, and went back to typing.

Hutch smirked. "That's none of your business, Junior." He walked over to the desk and picked up his half empty coffee cup. Gazing at the contents, he set it back down. "I'm calling it a night. You ready to go home?"

"Sure. I'm tired of trying to make this report sound halfway decent. You want to stop somewhere for a burger?"

Hutch shot him a weird look and shook his head. He grabbed his jacket from the chair and headed out the door.

"Can't fault a guy for being hungry," Jeff muttered as he followed after the retreating figure.

.

Starsky jerked awake. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his hazy vision. The room was dark, just like it had been the last time he'd awoken tonight. He reached for his watch on the nightstand and groaned softly. Almost two o'clock in the morning, an hour later than when he last checked. Both times he'd woken up from a bad dream, but couldn't remember any details. Grudgingly, he turned over on his side and punched the pillow to soften it up. As he pulled the covers back over him, Starsky could still feel the buzz of the pain meds. It wouldn't be long before the drugs dragged him back into a deep sleep.

God knows he needed it. In a few more hours, he'd be sitting in a doctor's office—again; listening to a bunch of facts he already knew. But gnawing at his resolve to get another opinion was the ever present fear of _someone_ finding _something_ new and unwelcomed. _Something_ that a particular _someone_ wasn't sure he could handle. Hell, Starsky could barely keep his distaste of being pawed and prodded to a manageable level; much less trying to deal with any more bad news. Stuffing his concerns back into the over-crowded corner of his subconscious, Starsky let out a deep breath and closed his eyes. He could only hope they'd stay that way until morning.

.

Bree hadn't found anything useful in her search of the trunk compartment. Muffled music filtered in from the passenger section, but it did nothing to calm her fears. Unwelcome memories surfaced, of being handcuffed and taken away in David's Torino. Unfortunately, this time she doubted there was a hidden firearm in the car.

Even though she hadn't seen her abductor, Bree tried to place his voice. It wasn't easy. The rough movement of the car and the reality of her situation made it impossible to concentrate on anything for more than a couple of seconds. But one thing had occurred to her. She was being kept alive for a purpose. Maybe the kidnapper thought she had a rich uncle or something, and once he realized his mistake, he'd let her go. Unfortunately, there was also another, more sinister, possibility—that whoever the man was, he was doing this to get back at Hutch, or David. If so, she was in serious trouble.

After driving for a long time, the car finally came to a stop. Not sure what the next few seconds would bring, Bree held her breath. The vehicle rocked slightly as a door opened and then slammed shut. She ducked her head and crouched into a ball, straining to hear any sound from the outside. The soft click of the trunk lock made her jump. When the lid flew open, Bree let go of a muffled whimper.

Muscles shaking, her head was suddenly jerked back. For a moment, there was just the tight pull on her hair and the sound of heavy breathing.

"Enjoy your ride, princess?" the man hissed in her ear.

Too scared to utter a response, Bree kept her eyes closed. When the pressure on her scalp increased, she had no other choice but to let herself be clumsily dragged out of the trunk.

Her first peek at the surrounding area was disheartening. The neighborhood appeared deserted. There was just a dark cluster of dilapidated buildings, none of which had an intact window or anything that indicated the area ever received any visitors; at least not human ones.

"C'mon, bitch! Time to see your new home."

Feeling the grip on her hair tighten, Bree was steered from behind towards the nearest empty building.

"What do you want with me?" she finally asked, attempting to dredge up some bravery.

"Oh, you'll find out real soon, girlie," the man crooned in her ear. Something in the tone of his voice made Bree's skin crawl. She knew she'd heard it before, but it _couldn't_ be who she thought it was. _Could_ it?

They entered through the wide open front door and headed to the rear of the building. Off to one side, stacks of metal display shelves lay on the floor, and on the other, a few empty rooms once used as offices. As they went further back, the interior became pitch black. Bree strained to see anything to identify where she was. The man pushed her ahead until she saw a dim glow coming from what appeared to be the entrance to a basement. When they drew closer, she could make out a set of stairs leading down toward the light.

"Keep going," the man grunted, emphasizing his demand with a shove. "Down there."

Gingerly, Bree went down the steps. Once she got to the bottom, she quickly gazed around the small room. A kerosene lamp illuminated a wooden chair, a little end table and, on the floor beside them, a worn out, dirty mattress. Bree's hope plummeted.

"Take off your clothes," the man demanded from behind her.

Bree started to turn around, then thought better of the idea. "Please," she begged, "Don't do this."

She heard him take a step closer. In a more sadistic tone, he muttered, "Either you take 'em off, or I will."

With her mind racing and head still pounding in pain, Bree reached up and held both flaps on her jacket. She slipped the garment off and stood still, not sure where to put it. For a moment, she cared almost as much for the jacket as she did for herself. The coat was a link to Hutch, a way to have some part of him present there with her. By tossing it away, she would be severing that connection, and leaving herself without anything to cling to. A sudden movement to her side made her jump as the lifeline was snatched from her hand.

"What are you waitin' for? Your boyfriend to come save you?" taunted the man. He threw the jacket down on the floor by the soiled mattress. "Now, strip."

Bree shuddered at his mention of Hutch. Did he really know about Ken, or was he just assuming she had a boyfriend? She ran her hands down to the hem of her t-shirt, and slowly pulled it off. Knowing he was watching, and enjoying every second of this, only added to Bree's shame. Dropping the shirt by the jacket, she started to unzip her jeans. The trembling muscles in her hands made them stiff and uncoordinated. Suddenly, the overwhelming buildup of panic became too much.

"Please," she cried over her shoulder, "why are you doing this?"

"Baby cakes, if you don't get those clothes off any faster, I'm gonna have to start getting mean. And you don't want me gettin' mean, do ya?"

Feeling there was nothing more she could do to keep the inevitable from happening, Bree took off her jeans. She reached behind her back, and unhooked her bra. After slipping it off, she eased her fingers onto her panties, but hesitated. She needed a moment to send her frenzied mind to a safe place, knowing that the rest of her wouldn't be able to follow. Moving very mechanically now, she pulled the silky garment off her hips and past her thighs, then let it fall to the floor.

"Turn around, sweetheart, but remember, no peeking."

The cold voice cut through the thick, musty air. Bree crossed her arms and placed them over her breasts. With her head bowed, she stepped out of the panties and reluctantly turned.

"Damn, baby. You are one fine lookin' bitch."

The monster stepped closer. Completely naked now, Bree felt unbearably humiliated. When his meaty hand came up and cupped her chin, she instinctively batted it away, not ready to be touched by such filth. Before she had time to regret that decision, her attacker's hand returned—with a vengeance.

The force of the strike sent her spinning wildly to the floor. Giant fingers took hold of her arm and squeezed. The man yanked her back up and she was savagely hit across the face again. With her sense of equilibrium gone, Bree felt weightless. Just as she realized she was falling, she landed like a rag doll face down on the mattress. Slowly, Bree moved a hand up to her head but her wrist was grabbed and twisted behind her. Yelping in pain, she immediately felt her other wrist seized and pulled behind her back.

Stretched to their limit, her shoulder muscles bristled in agony. Her attacker tied Bree's wrists together and both elbows as well. With her arms secured, she was completely at the pervert's mercy. Using her one last defense, Bree clamped her eyes closed and willed her brain to escape.

"Think that's gonna make this feel better?" the man chuckled.

Tucker her head closer to her chest, Bree listened to the sounds of clothing rustling and then hitting the floor. She slowly curled into a fetal position, bringing her legs up in a vain attempt to protect the monster's most likely target. When the mattress suddenly sunk down beside her, so did her last bit of hope.

The man's thick hands dug in between her thighs and forced her legs apart. Unwillingly rolled onto her back, she kept her head turned and tried to bury her face into the stinking mattress. Her stomach muscles quivered when he placed a palm on her belly and softly glided it down her midline. He stopped, resting his hand between her legs, and began to playfully comb through her pubic hair. She moaned softly, but quickly suppressed it as she felt another hand pinch her breast nipple. Moving in tandem, both of his hands now toyed with her body.

Soon, the hand below began to wander more freely. Bree froze when he inserted one finger, and then two into her vagina, twisting and moving up and down, as if trying to explore her innermost sanctum. He deserted the first nipple and quickly found her other one, his fingers moving over the sensitive nub, squeezing, rolling and torturing. He cruelly pinched so hard, Bree couldn't hold the cry in.

Her bound arms were also hurting. Squished by the weight of her body, they were burning with prickly sensations. In a vain attempt to seek some relief, Bree tried to pull her legs back together, but the pervert immediately clasped one and straightened it out again.

"Oh no, my dear. We haven't begun to have fun yet."

His hands withdrew. Bree felt the mattress rise and dip as her attacker repositioned himself and straddled her. The sound of his heavy breathing drew closer. Stank air landing on her face reeked with the foul odor of cigarettes and alcohol. The stinking scent hovered like an unwelcomed blanket, and Bree cringed as she felt fingers comb through her hair. An instant later, his mouth clasped onto hers. Bree tried snapping her head away, but he grabbed her jaw and held it tightly. The monster's tongue invaded her mouth, greedily claiming all he could. Unable to get enough air, Bree inhaled deeply through her nose. The foul smell of her attacker imprinted in her memory—everything from the scent of his cheap aftershave to the musky odor of his body and greased hair.

As he continued to probe her mouth, Bree felt rough skinned palms return to fondle her breasts. Struggling to get free, she tried to slip out from under him, but he jammed his knee between her legs. Fully pinned down, Bree could no longer move. Her tormentor slipped in another leg, spreading her thighs wide apart. He quit stroking one breast and slid the hand off her chest, letting it settle on the mattress beside her head.

Slowly, he began rubbing his body against hers. Wiry chest hairs brushed along her chest and nipples. He rocked back and forth, grunting like a primal pig. Bit by bit, his fat belly lowered until it pushed into hers. Bree's stomach muscles tensed as a moist, blunt rod of flesh butted up against the entrance to her vagina.

Without waiting, he began to jab, forcing his dick against her most vulnerable spot. Bree tried to coax her body to relax, but it wouldn't obey. When the thick rod entered her, she howled in agony. He was big, almost too big. He pulled back and rammed into her again. This time he got in farther, and Bree felt skin tear. Once again, he retreated, and on the third push, shoved into her as hard as he could. With his penis sheathed, he ground back and forth, penetrating her again and again.

"Oh darlin', you're hotter than I ever imagined," he panted, his voice cruel and taunting.

The pain was excruciating. Bree gasped with each vicious thrust. Still refusing to open her eyes, she didn't have to see to know this pervert was relishing every painful sound she made. Just as her mind started to go numb, she arched up in misery as the rapist bit down hard on a nipple.

Not able to take it anymore, she opened her eyes.

"You mother fucker!" she screamed. "Why are you…" Her words stuck in mid air as Bree looked into the face of someone she'd thought she'd never see again. "Oh, my God," she whispered.

The man lifted his sweaty head higher, abandoning his thrusting. He stared at her almost nostalgically, making Bree feel she should know what to say next.

"You look like you're surprised to see me," he remarked, short of breath.

"But…you were…"

"Gone? Yeah, I guess everybody thought that."

Bree tried to swallow the lump in her throat. "But, why this? Why…me?"

"Because, _you_ fucked me first," he whispered darkly.

Stunned at the answer, Bree gazed into the black and expressionless eyes looming above her. There was no emotion, no sense of a soul, not even a shred of decency for her situation. Left with nothing else, she gathered up a wad of saliva and spit in his face. "I hope you go to _hell_!" she gritted out.

"Not before you will, princess."

The last thing Bree saw was a glimpse of a fist speeding towards her face.

.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Special thanks to Brook! Thanks hon, for all those reviews!

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**Chapter 8**

**.**

Starsky sat on the exam table, at least feeling mentally relieved. However, his chest and a few other areas were still aching in protest. The torture of having fingers jabbing into him where they weren't welcome had finally ended. His exam hadn't lasted very long, but after the first few pokes and prods, every place the doctor had touched hurt. While waiting for the white coated tormentor to come back with the examination results, a knock at the door startled him.

"David?" the nurse asked, partially sticking her head in.

"Yeah?"

"Oh, good," she said, coming inside the small room, "I wasn't sure if you were decent."

Starsky glanced down at the paper gown he was wearing. "Well, I guess that depends on whose opinion you want," he softly muttered.

"Doctor Brown says you can go ahead and get dressed. He should be back in about five minutes." She handed him a small, white pill and a paper cup filled with water. "He wants you to take this. It'll help with your discomfort."

Starsky briefly inspected the tiny tablet before swallowing it. He could've refused but there wasn't any point. After the nurse left, he gladly shed the worthless gown and eagerly got back into his jeans and t-shirt. From the number of painful twinges coming from his chest, he was starting to feel grateful for the medication.

True to the nurse's prediction, Dr. Brown arrived five minutes later. He carried a thick folder with him and sat down in one of the two empty chairs lined against the wall.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, opening up the file on his lap.

"A little sore, but I'm good." Starsky studied the doctor's face, trying to gage whether he had something good to say or bad. It was nearly impossible, as the man always seemed to be smiling.

"You've got an interesting case, David, as I'm sure you've been told before. The internal injuries caused by the bullets were quite extensive and serious. I have to say, according to your medical records, I'm really amazed you survived this."

Starsky instinctively smirked. If he only had a dollar for each time he'd heard that. Not wanting to appear ungrateful, he said, "You and me both, doc. I had some good people on my side."

"Yes, well, that's very obvious. However, I believe the problem you're having is that your body is trying to overcompensate in healing itself."

"_Over_-compensate?"

An even bigger smile appeared on the doctor's face. "When tissue is injured, it starts repairing itself. Commonly, it builds back together with just the right amount of materials. Other times, which is your case, it uses too much. The result is the new tissue doesn't become very functional. On top of everything, if it's constantly aggravated, a continuous cycle emerges since the body's natural tendency is to keep healing itself."

"So, are you saying that even if you try and fix it, because of this overcompensation, it'll just keep getting worse?" Starsky was really hoping that conclusion wasn't the only one.

"Unfortunately, that's a possibility, but let me say this. After reading Doctor Phillips' report, I tend to concur with his assessment and treatment plan. If the majority of the overgrown scar tissue can be removed under optimal surgical conditions, along with initiating immediate and ongoing physical therapy, I feel there's an excellent chance for a satisfactory recovery."

"Satisfactory," Starsky said dully. "As in, I'll be fine sitting at a desk."

The doctor's smile finally diminished. "I know this isn't what you want to hear, but it's an honest assessment. According to the notes from the doctor who treated you in the emergency room, your chances of survival then were slim to none. Some people would say it's a miracle you're doing as well as you are." He closed the folder and set it on the table beside him. "You, of course, want to be able to attain a level of activity that will allow you to keep working as a detective."

"Anything wrong with that?" Starsky interjected.

"No, absolutely not. The question is, whether myself, or any other medical professional, can achieve that for you. Is it impossible? No. Is it _realistic_? That's the million dollar question."

"Okay, so what would be my chances of it becoming realistic?"

"As much as I'd love to quote percentages, I can't. There're just too many variables. Here's what I will say. If you decide to have the surgery, I believe your condition will improve. How _much_ it will improve, I don't know. But that should be encouraging news because, as you probably realize, the recovery period won't be easy."

Starsky's optimism dropped several levels, remembering every burn, twinge and muscle ache from that hellish time. He couldn't believe he'd survived those first few months in physical therapy, much less having to do anything like that again.

"Let me ask you this," Starsky remarked, still needing something more hopeful to cling to. "If you were me, what would you do?"

Doctor Brown shifted in his seat. His gaze left Starsky and for a long moment he looked rather plaintive. Finally, in a halting voice, he answered. "When I was younger, my heart was set on becoming a professional baseball player. I'd attended college on a sports scholarship and got signed on with a major league right after graduation. Well, being young and invincible, me and a few good buddies decided to go out and celebrate. Long story short, the car I was in hit another vehicle head on. My two best friends were killed."

"Oh, God," Starsky exclaimed. "That must've been horrible."

"It was," he said, nodding his head. "I ended up in the ICU with a pitching arm that was barely still attached to the rest of me. But I felt lucky, considering the boys who died."

"Is that why you decided to become a doc?"

"No, I still wanted to be a baseball player. Pushed myself through months and months of rehab, even had two surgeries on my arm. When everything finally healed, I went back and tried to prove I was still good enough to play professionally."

"Were you?" Starsky carefully asked.

"No, not by a long shot," Brown answered, the smile on his face as wide as ever. "The problem was I thought everyone wanted me to be a baseball player, so I was trying like hell to do what they wanted."

"But I thought that _is _what you wanted?"

Brown shook his head. "Only because back then, I believed playing baseball would make me happy…and everyone else I cared about happy as well. Once I'd hit a brick wall in my recovery, that's when I had to find a different path. Fortunately, I discovered a better career in helping others."

Starsky felt himself frowning. "Well, as a cop, I help people all the time."

"Precisely, but public servants aren't the only ones capable of doing that. There are other occupations where you could have job satisfaction and fulfill your desire to serve."

"So, what you're saying is I should quit, not have the surgery, and become a social worker," Starsky said apathetically.

"What I'm saying is, how hard you hit that brick wall all depends on you. If it ends up lying beyond the limit needed for you to be a detective, that's one thing. But if you reach it before obtaining that goal, then you're in for a rough ride."

"And that's the big question, huh? Where is it situated in my case?"

"Exactly, but you'll never know where that is, unless you go out and find it." The doctor opened Starsky's chart and pulled a prescription form out. "I went ahead and wrote you a new prescription. I see that Doctor…" Brown paused for a moment while he quickly scanned through some pages in the file. "Ah, here it is. Doctor Peters. He gave you a muscle relaxer and a script for another pain medication. I'd suggest switching from those to this drug. It isn't as strong as what you've had before, but if you start taking it regularly, you should feel comfortable enough on the lower dosage."

Reluctantly, Starsky took the script. He glanced over the writing scribbled on the note pad, but didn't recognize the name of the drug. Dipping his head in feigned acceptance, he grabbed his jacket lying beside him and slid off of the exam table. "Okay, Doc," he said and extended a hand to Brown. "Thanks for seeing me."

"Anytime. Let me know what you decide, all right?"

Starsky forced a smile as he stuffed the prescription pad in his pocket. "I'll keep in touch. Promise."

.

The sound of a phone ringing bordered on Hutch's consciousness, enough where he couldn't tell if it was part of his dream or not. Only when the annoying ring kept repeating did Hutch roll over in bed and blindly reach out trying to locate the source.

Finally grabbing the receiver, he held it to his ear. "'ello?" he mumbled.

"_Hutch? That you?"_

Hutch opened his eyes, somehow believing doing so would help his mind wake up. "Jeff? What the hell do you want?" He cranked his head so he could see the time lit in tiny red lines on the alarm clock. "It's two-fucking-thirty in the morning!" he hoarsely croaked.

"_Sorry about that, partner. But we're being called in to work."_

"Ah, hell." Hutch grabbed the covers and flung them off of him. He ran a hand across his face, trying to wipe the sleep away, then laid the arm across his forehead. "All right, tell me what's going on."

"_That I'm not real sure of…"_

"Come again?" Hutch grumbled.

"_Dispatch called and said there's a young female in ICU at Memorial. From what it sounds like, they don't expect her to live."_

Hutch lay in the murky room, still wishing his brain would wake up. "Am I missing something?" he asked. "Why is she in the hospital?"

"_Oh, I forgot to mention,"_ Jeff admitted. _"She was beaten up; most likely raped, too."_

"Shit," Hutch said. "Give me…fifteen minutes. Your car or mine?"

"_We'll go in mine. It'll take me about that long to get to your place."_

"Swell. Later."

.

Starsky's dreaming was interrupted by frantic knocking on his bedroom door. As he sluggishly pulled himself out of a restful, but drug-enhanced sleep, he vaguely registered the fact that Rachel had entered the room and was now shaking his shoulder.

"David…David, wake up! Ken is on the phone!"

"Huh? What time is it?" Starsky said. His mouth felt dry and fuzzy, kinda like his brain.

"Get up! Right now!" Rachel insisted. "Something has happened to Breanna!"

At the mention of his sister's name, Starsky shot awake. "What, Ma? What happened?"

"No one will tell me! Go talk to Ken! Hurry!"

"All right!" Starsky rolled out of bed. Realizing he only had on underwear momentarily stopped him just before he reached the doorway. But sensing that Rachel wasn't going to care, he continued into the hall and reaching the living room, picked up the phone. "Hutch?"

"_Starsk…I think you need to find a flight back here real soon."_

"What happened?" Starsky tried to brace himself for the next thing Hutch would say. He could hear the tension in his partner's voice, and the fear.

"_Bree's been attacked—"_

"Attacked?" Starsky nearly slapped himself for saying that out loud. Rachel was standing right beside him.

"_I'm not sure what happened,"_ Hutch replied, his voice on the edge of cracking. _"But she's been hurt bad, Starsk. Real bad."_

His last words cracked. "Okay, okay." Starsky closed his eyes and tried to think. "What hospital are you at?"

"_Memorial."_

"Memorial…" Starsky cringed, briefly remembering his own time spent fighting for his life in that building. "Um, let me see what flight I can get on and I'll call you back."

"_Make it quick, partner."_

"Yeah. Hang in there." Starsky almost hung up, then said, "Hutch?"

"_Yeah?"_

"Don't leave her side, okay? Don't let her be alone."

"_Not a chance."_

Starsky hung up the phone. His first impulse was to grab the phone book and start calling the airlines, but his eyes met Rachel's and suddenly he had no idea what to do.

"What, _Zuninkeh?_ What has happened to her?"

For a moment, Starsky stood frozen, then glanced down at his meager clothing. "I don't know, Ma," he said. Making a quick turn, he hurried down the hall back to his bedroom. Rachel was right on his tail.

"David! Tell me what Ken said! What are you doing?"

"Putting some clothes on!" Starsky yelled over his shoulder. He flicked on the light as he entered the bedroom and hastily slipped on a pair of jeans. While buttoning them up, Starsky peeked at Rachel. "All Hutch said was that she'd been assaulted—"

"Assaulted? But I thought you said 'attacked'?" Rachel grabbed his arm, holding on to it for dear life. "What are you not telling me?"

Starsky firmly took hold of her. He'd purposely not pressed Hutch for details, giving him an alibi for just this kind of questioning from his mother. "All Hutch said was that Bree was hurt." When Rachel said nothing and kept staring at him, Starsky gave in a little more. "He sounded like it was bad."

"Oh, no...not my baby!"

"Ma! Ma!" Trying to comfort her, Starsky gathered Rachel into his arms. "Look, I've gotta fly back home. As soon as I know something, I'll call, okay?" Her body dropped slightly from his grasp. Starsky hugged her a little tighter. _It's always something, isn't it, Ma? And each time, you have no one here to be with you._ Fighting the urge to hold onto Rachel for comfort, or start calling the airlines, Starsky reluctantly chose the latter. He ended their embrace and took hold of his mother's hands. "Want me to call Nicky? Have him come over?"

Rachel's sad eyes dimmed and then closed. "No, you go ahead and do what you must," she said, looking back up at him. "I'll be fine."

Hardly believing her, Starsky glanced at his wallet lying on the desk. Since he was ending his visit prematurely, maybe there'd be enough money…

"Ma, go pack a suitcase."

.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

Thanks everyone, for your continued interest...hope you're enjoying the story!

.

**Chapter 9**

**.**

Starsky parked the rental car in the first space he could find at the hospital. Neither he nor Rachel seemed to care that it was a no parking zone. The five hour flight from New York had felt more like eight, and the slow line at the Avis checkout counter only added to an already long trip. Ironically, Starsky was glad Rachel was there with him. His mother's presence had stopped him several times already from doing something he'd regret.

Taking Rachel's arm, Starsky led her inside the Memorial Hospital entrance where they took the elevator up to the ICU floor. When he and his mother stepped out into the foyer, Captain Dobey was the first person Starsky literally ran into.

"Starsky!" Dobey straightened from the slight collision. He opened his mouth and was about to say something else, then diverted his attention over at Rachel. "Mrs. Starsky," he said politely, reaching out his hand, "I'm sorry to be seeing you again under these circumstances."

"Captain," Rachel replied, as she took hold of his hand.

"Is Hutch around?" Starsky asked, peering down the hallway.

"He's with your sister…Room 412."

Starsky swallowed hard. That had been his room while he was here at the 'resort.' "Any change?" he asked tersely.

"No. Not since you called from JFK."

"'kay. C'mon, Ma."

Gathering up his courage, Starsky laid a hand on Rachel's back and ushered her mechanically to the room. He paused just for an instant in the doorway to take a deep breath. _Ammonia. Disinfectant._ Pushing aside the unwelcomed memories, he summoned his courage and continued inside. Hutch saw him immediately, but Starsky couldn't help but glance past his partner at the figure lying on the bed. _Bad mistake._

Through the web of IV lines and heart monitor leads, Starsky got his first glimpse of Bree. He barely recognized her. Her face was swollen and pale. Both eyes were closed shut with dark red circles underneath. A breathing tube stuck out of her mouth, the white base contrasting with the colorful array of marks on her cheeks and forehead. A quiet sob from Rachel temporarily halted Starsky's inspection.

"Oh, my baby," she muttered sadly.

Rachel walked stiffly to Bree's bedside. Hutch had already given up his seat right next to the bed. Rachel gingerly took her daughter's hand, careful not to touch any of the IV lines taped on top. As she sat down in the vacated chair, her eyes glued onto Bree, Starsky sought out Hutch's.

"Saw Dobey out in the hall," Starsky softly remarked, nodding towards the door. "There's been no change?"

Hutch shook his head. "No," he said flatly. "Her doctor was by a little while ago. Didn't have much to say."

Hutch's stark demeanor spoke volumes about Bree's condition. For a moment, Starsky wondered if this is what his partner looked like in those first few days after Gunther's attack. His eyes drifted over to Rachel. She was murmuring something, obviously for her daughter's ears only. Sensing that Rachel could use some privacy, and Hutch could use a break, Starsky motioned for him to go out in the hall.

When he and Hutch had found a reasonably secluded spot, Starsky stopped and leaned against the wall. "What happened?" he asked, confident he'd be hearing everything Hutch knew.

"Don't know."

Hutch's response surprised Starsky. Surely he knew something! "Any witnesses, any—"

"Two joggers found her near Arthur Park. Beaten. Naked. Crime lab didn't find squat." Hutch exhaled deeply. "Unless she regains consciousness, we got nothing."

Starsky kept staring at him, expecting to hear just one bit of info that he…that they could run with. But the mile-long look in Hutch's eyes clearly indicated he'd told Starsky everything. "What…what about Bree? Are they saying anything…?"

Hutch's head dipped. He stuffed his hands in his pants and leaned back against the wall. "She's in a coma, Starsk. What else can they say?"

"Hutch?"

Looking over his shoulder, Starsky peered at the young man slowly approaching them. He was tall, about six feet, with straight brown hair cut cleanly around his ears. Displaying wrinkle-free skin and rosy cheeks, he looked all of about seventeen years old. Starsky's trained eye drifted lower and spotted the slight bulge under the kid's jacket. An undercover cop?

"Jeff." Hutch, coming to life, briskly straightened and stepped around Starsky. "What'd the lab find?"

Flabbergasted, Starsky stayed still, feeling definitely like persona non grata.

"Nothing in her apartment. No blood, no fingerprints. They got through dusting the Mustang. Nothing there as well, except for the laundry hamper in the trunk."

Looking pensive, Hutch stood silent. Like an afterthought, he said, "Starsk, this is Jeff Kent, my partner. Jeff, this is Dave Starsky."

Kent offered his hand to shake. "Hi, Hutch has told me about you."

With so many questions and comments flooding his mind, Starsky could hardly think straight; much less offer a suitable acknowledgement. _Bree's apartment inspected? Laundry in the trunk? "Hutch has __**told**_ _me about you?"_ Shoving those feelings aside, Starsky mechanically reached out and shook Kent's hand.

"Did you see Dobey?" Hutch asked his _partner_.

"Yeah. I let him know everything I just told you."

Starsky jammed his hands into his jacket. "Looks like you guys need to talk shop. I'll go see how Ma's doing."

He made it about three steps before hearing, "Starsky, wait!" Rolling his eyes, Starsky stopped and turned around. "You gonna be here for awhile?" Hutch asked, approaching him. "I thought I'd run some possible suspects by you."

Momentarily eying the Boy Wonder, Starsky shrugged one of his shoulders. "Why? Seems like you two got everything handled."

He started to leave again, but Hutch grabbed his arm. "Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" he asked quietly but firmly.

Starsky pulled his arm back. "It means, I'll be here, with my sister and Ma." He tried to keep his voice soft, not wanting Hutch to hear the jealous edge Starsky had attached to his words. Even though he was feeling like the third man out, this wasn't the time and place to air his opinion.

Hutch relaxed a bit, but the intense look remained. "Okay," he agreed. "I need to go over to Huggy's, see if he's heard anything. Tell Bree…tell her that I love her."

"Yeah, okay." Starsky kept staring at Hutch, letting their silent communication speak. Hutch wasn't keeping him in the dark; he was just so worried about Bree that his mind was racing down a fast track with blinders on. Giving Hutch a grateful nod, Starsky glanced briefly at Jeff and headed off to Bree's room.

"Did I miss something?" Jeff asked, once Starsky was out of earshot.

"No, not a thing. C'mon, I don't want to be gone too long." Hutch took off in the opposite direction.

"So, who's this 'Huggy'?" Jeff called out, trying to catch up.

.

Just before getting back to Bree's room, Starsky saw Dobey waiting out in the hall. Approaching his former boss, Starsky knew he should talk to him, but wasn't sure what topic of conversation to engage in. Weather conditions and "how's the family" were certainly out. Maybe Starsky would just utter a "hey, Capt," and call it good. Besides, he really wanted to check on Ma and start spending time with Bree.

"I just poked my head in on your mother," Dobey said, beating him to the punch. "She seems to be holding up, given the circumstances."

"She's had a lot of experience sitting at bedsides. Doesn't make her want to be an expert, though."

Dobey took a step closer. "How are you holding up, Starsky?"

"I'm…" He wanted to lie and say he was good. But this was Dobey he was talking to, not some stranger who couldn't read him like a book. "I think it still hasn't hit yet, Cap."

Dobey uttered a quiet grunt. "Did your trip to New York go like you thought it would?"

"I saw a shrink." Starsky watched Dobey's eyebrows rise. _I bet he never saw that one comin'_.

"Well," Dobey said with a crooked grin. "Guess I better start polishing that badge of yours."

Starsky smiled, but it wasn't sincere. Coming back here wasn't his choice, and nothing was feeling right or comfortable. At this moment, though, Bree's welfare was the only thing that mattered. "Excuse me, Capt'n, but I need to be with my sister."

Dobey stepped to the side. "Of course, take all the time you need, son."

Giving a small nod, Starsky entered the ICU room. Rachel was still seated, her purse on the floor by her chair and both hands clasped in her lap. Starsky pulled another chair beside hers and sat down. Warily, he examined all the displays on the machines clustered nearby. The quiet beeps and hisses slowly dug into his subconscious, dredging up memories of pain, fear and confusion from when he had been in this same room. His attention drifted back to the present and settled on Bree. Despite the brutal marks on her face, she looked very peaceful, as if waiting for Prince Charming to come and deliver an awakening kiss.

But Starsky was feeling anything but peaceful. Whoever did this to her was going to pay, and pay big. Maybe this was why he wasn't on the force anymore. Assault charges against a civilian were nothing compared to those levied against a cop while performing his _duties_. And having to follow department policy wasn't exactly on the list of things he had to do anymore. Starsky the Vigilante—the title even rhymed.

_Shit, haven't you spent enough time in a jail cell?_

Starsky sighed deeply, and shoved the building hostility away. When, and if, the time came, he'd deal with the bastard that did this. But right now, anger wasn't going to help anything.

"How're ya doin' Ma?" Starsky reached over and placed a hand on Rachel's arm.

"She looks like when she was a child," Rachel said. She leaned forward and ran the back of a hand softly along Bree's cheek. "I don't understand, David, who would do such a thing? Why would someone want to hurt her?"

Starsky stared at the tubes and IV lines. He knew the answers to Rachel's questions; knew there wasn't any mystery involved. It was the same type of person who'd come after him and Hutch numerous times. Prudholm, Alex Drew, Rothman, Gunther. The last names changed but the enemy was always the same. People with a grudge or chip on their shoulders. Criminals who hated cops, and those people cops loved and cared about. Glancing over the injuries on Bree's face, Starsky felt certain about one thing. This wasn't some random sleaze bag who'd gotten a hold of her and decided to beat the shit out of her. He'd known exactly who Bree was.

_Whoever you are, scum ball, I got your message. Loud and clear. And I promise, you'll be getting mine…real soon._

_._

Hutch sat stiffly in the passenger seat of Jeff's Dodge Dart as they pulled up behind the back door of Huggy's and parked. Judging by the almost non-existent conversation on the way here, Hutch figured the young detective had a load of questions in store for him. Kent always had at least half a dozen or so, especially before they were about to question someone…

"So, this Brown guy, he's like a cross between a good buddy and a snitch?"

_Well, that didn't take long._

"Huggy's a good _friend_," Hutch huffed, opening his door. "And I'm sure he'd resent being called a 'snitch.'"

"I don't have anything against snitches," Jeff explained, taking the keys out of the ignition. "I was just wondering, if he's more of Starsky's sni…_informant_, is Mr. Bear gonna be straight with us?"

Hutch stopped halfway out of the car. He shook his head and settled back in his seat. "Where did you come up with 'he's more of Starsky's sni…inform…' ah, hell! You _know_ what I mean!"

Jeff shrugged a shoulder. "Well, you said before we left the station that Starsky busted this guy back when he was still in uniform. Doesn't that make him Starsky's…you know, stool pigeon?"

Before he realized it, Hutch's index finger was pointed at Kent. "Let me just say this," Hutch started, his temper rising quickly. "We try to work _with_ people out here on the street. Very few might be someone you'd invite over for Thanksgiving, but they're still human beings, just like you and me." Hutch emphasized the last word by poking his finger into his chest.

"Hey," Jeff said calmly, raising his hand. "I'm not thumbing my nose at anyone. If Yogi Bear here can help us out, I'm all for it."

"It's _Huggy_ Bear," Hutch spouted, and pulled himself out of the car.

Both walked in the back door and through the kitchen to the front of the bar. Not surprisingly, Huggy was behind the counter; sliding two tall glasses of beer into the hands of a couple of fine-looking women seated near the cash register. Hutch caught his eye with a nod and took a seat at the bar along with Kent.

While waiting for Huggy to break loose from the foxy pair, Hutch skimmed over the midday crowd inside the establishment. The dozen or so people present were typical of Huggy's customers; a few were nicely dressed, most likely nearby office workers, and the rest wore casual clothing. Except for a small crowd gathered down by the pool table, everyone else was seated and seemingly enjoying themselves. Jeff was also checking out the locals, but his attention soon focused back on Huggy. For a moment, Hutch couldn't help but wonder if Huggy's bigger-than-life reputation was a little hard to believe for a first timer.

"Well, well, well. If it ain't the Lone Ranger and his new sidekick…Kid Curry." Huggy reached under the counter and pulled out two glasses. With a cordial smile, he set both in front of the two men.

"Huggy," Hutch said lamely, "can't we just dispose of the nicknames for once?"

The man's smile grew even wider. "Sure _mon ami_." He reached out his hand for Jeff to shake. "Name's Huggy Bear. I serve a mean chili con carne, but today I'd stick with the meatloaf. What'll it be, gentlemen?"

"Jeff Kent," Jeff said as he coolly accepted the handshake, but he glanced over at Hutch as if he was uncomfortable saying anything else upfront.

"Huggy, we're not here on a social call."

"Oh, I see," Huggy lamented, flinging the hand towel he was holding over his shoulder. "And here I was thinkin' you were only comin' by because of my sparklin' personality and delectable cuisine."

"Bree's in the ICU at Memorial," Hutch said, forcing each word out of his mouth. "Someone kidnapped her from the parking lot at her apartment. She's…she was assaulted and raped. We were wondering if you've heard anything…" Hutch's voice trailed off. It was obvious Huggy was hearing this for the first time, and that meant nothing had hit the streets yet.

"Hutch, I'm sorry. I didn't know." Huggy's voice softened. "Is she gonna be okay, I mean, how bad was she hurt?"

"Bad." Releasing a frustrated sigh, Hutch climbed off the bar stool. They weren't going to find any leads here. Almost without thinking, he pulled out his wallet and thumbed through a few bills. Finding ten dollars, he tossed the money on the counter. "Let us know if you hear anything," he told Huggy, sticking the wallet back in his pocket.

"Does Starsky know?" Huggy asked, ignoring the payment in front of him.

"Yeah, he's here."

"He's back from New York?" Huggy sounded surprised, even a little disappointed.

"Just arrived a couple of hours ago, Hug. He's at the hospital, along with his mom." Hutch offered a sympathetic smile. "He'd probably love to see you."

Huggy's usual smile returned. "I'm sure the little sister is in good hands, Hutch. Those docs there know how to perform a few miracles."

Hutch nodded in response. No doubt, Huggy was referring to Starsky's amazing recovery.

"I'll put some feelers out, see what's shakin'. Glad to meet you, Kid," Huggy said, as he grabbed the two empty glasses.

"It's _Kent_…and it was a real pleasure to meet you, too, _Teddy._"

"Got yourself a sense of humor," Huggy quipped. "You'll need it working with Blondie, here."

Smirking, Hutch shoved his hands into his pockets and headed for the back door. He passed by the pay phone, and temporarily slowed his pace debating whether he should call the hospital and check on Bree or not. Deciding against the idea, he continued out of the bar—the uncertainty of ever solving this case nipping right at his heels.

.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

Hi Everyone! Not sure what to make of all the silence out there, but I hope you're enjoying the story...

.

**Chapter 10**

**.**

Later that evening, Starsky returned from the cafeteria downstairs with a cup of coffee and sandwich for Rachel. The woman had refused to leave Bree's bedside, fearing, amongst other things, that her daughter might wake from her coma and find no one there. In the meantime, Starsky had been struggling with his own priorities. Should he stay with Mom in the hospital, lending her support, or work on a way to get involved in Bree's case? At the very least, he needed to go home and fix things so Rachel could stay at the house. That is, if he could ever get her to leave the hospital.

Back in Bree's room, Starsky waited until Rachel had slowly nibbled down half of her sandwich to announce his plan.

"Ma," he said, glancing up at the clock on the wall, "it's almost nine-thirty. Why don't I take you home, get your things put away so you can rest up?"

"Davey, I don't want to leave…not now."

Starsky sighed quietly. "In a little while, they're going to kick us out of here anyway." Starsky knew he was stretching the truth. There'd been countless nights that Hutch had stayed with him while he was in ICU. Hospitals tended to forego their enforcement of visiting hours with critically ill patients, but for now, Rachel didn't have to know that.

"But what if something happens during the night?" Rachel asked, turning to face him. "She'll be frightened if no one is here that she knows."

"What about this?" Starsky proposed. "I'll drive you home, get you settled, then I'll come back here and sit with Bree until tomorrow morning."

"Oh, David, you shouldn't be doing that!" Rachel reached up and cupped his cheek with her hand. "You need your rest." She paused for a moment, and lowered her hand. Looking down at the half-eaten sandwich, Rachel began to wrap the food up in a napkin. "No," she said, softly, "you mustn't do that—"

"Ma," Starsky protested, but before he could say anything else, Rachel interrupted him.

"I know what you're going to say..." She took another look at Bree. Releasing a deep breath, Rachel unexpectedly got up and leaned over the bed railing. She stroked Bree's forehead, then bent over and kissed her on the forehead. After muttering a few words in Yiddish that Starsky didn't understand, Rachel stepped back and reached down to grab her purse. "Come, let's go," she said, sadly. "Tomorrow morning will be here before you know it."

Dumbfounded, Starsky rose from his chair and watched as his mother shuffled slowly to the door. He approached Bree's bedside and carefully laid a hand on her arm. "Don't worry, sis," he whispered, "I'll be back in just a bit."

After giving her a light squeeze, Starsky turned to leave.

"Davey," Rachel said softly, "you really should—"

"Rest," he answered. "I know, but one late night isn't gonna kill me. Besides, I'm sure when Hutch gets here, he won't mind having some company."

Shaking her head in defeat, Rachel offered no resistance as Starsky led her from the room and out to the hospital parking lot. The drive home was quick, and within an hour, Rachel had turned in for the night and Starsky was back behind the wheel. He made a mental note to pick up a few groceries before returning home in the morning. Not that Rachel would be in the mood for cooking, but it would be a good idea to get some things they could easily fix for breakfast.

Arriving at the hospital, Starsky walked into Bree's room and was not surprised to find Hutch sitting in the chair Rachel had occupied all day. Since Kent wasn't there, Starsky presumed he'd already gone home.

"I thought you'd called it a night," Hutch said, breaking his focus on Bree. "Nurses said they'd seen you leave about two hours ago."

"Finally got Mom to go home and get some sleep," Starsky explained as he pulled up a chair beside Hutch. "Thought you'd want some company."

Hutch smiled slightly and leaned back in his seat. "Yeah, well, I'm getting used to doing bedside vigils."

The tone of his voice sounded flat, but there was a lot of emotion and history hidden behind the simple statement.

"How'd it go today?" Starsky asked, hoping to change the subject. "Huggy have any leads?"

Shaking his head, Hutch replied, "Nada. He said he'd keep his ears open."

Hutch's answer wasn't exactly what Starsky was hoping for. Feeling his frustration starting to build again, Starsky tried to brainstorm.

"You got any ideas on who did this?" he asked.

Hutch leaned sideways a bit, keeping his head propped on the palm of his hand. "I've run dozens of names through my brain, Starsk. Most of them…hell." He pinched his eyes closed and bowed his head, first shaking it gently, then more determinedly. "Eenie, meenie, miney, mo. Your guess at a fruitcake is as good as mine."

Any optimism Starsky had of coming up with a suspect dramatically plummeted. Here was their most important case, and not only did neither he nor Hutch have anyone in mind, Starsky didn't even have a badge he could shove into someone's face.

"This sucks, Hutch." He glanced over at the tired blond sitting beside him. Hutch's eyes were still closed, either in sympathetic frustration or out of exhaustion—Starsky couldn't tell which. Searching for something else to concentrate on, he looked over at Bree. _I guess this is how I looked that first week after Gunther, _he thought, putting himself in Hutch's shoes._ Not talking, not blinking, just lying there…beeping._

Starsky let out an irritated groan and shot up from his chair. Why was this happening? Why were the people closest to him always the ones to suffer? He walked over to the window and looked out at the city lights. On the street below, a few cars drove by; the only evidence of any nightlife. Starsky rested an arm against the glass and nudged his head into the crook in his elbow.

Hutch's voice broke the silence. "You look beat, Starsk. Why don't you go home, get some sleep?"

"You're not lookin' too alive, either." Starsky turned around and leaned against the glass. "I'll stay here tonight, Hutch," he offered. "If anything changes, I'll call. Promise."

Hutch lifted his head. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Finally, he said, "Are you sure?"

Starsky nodded. "You've still got a badge, Hutch—"

"Starsky…" Whatever Hutch wanted to say, he decided to keep to himself. Instead, he got up and stood by Bree's bedside. After softly running a hand across her forehead, he bent down and gave her a gentle kiss on her cheek. Straightening, he walked over to join Starsky at the window. "How're you doin'?" he asked, taking hold of Starsky's arm.

"I'm a big boy," he said, cracking a smile.

Hutch smiled in return, but raised his eyebrows and added, "That's not what I meant."

"I'm still in one piece," Starsky reassured him.

Hutch patted Starsky's shoulder. "I'm glad you're here," he said. "And I'm sure that goes for Bree, too."

Nodding in agreement, Starsky locked eyes with the man standing in front of him. For a brief moment, words and feelings passed between them, silent and unseen, but there was no need for interpretation. Starsky was sure Hutch could feel the sadness and frustration coming from both their hearts; the feeling of overwhelming helplessness that the dynamic duo wasn't jumping in the Torino and racing off into the bowels of Bay City to hunt down a suspect. Bree was one of their own, and no cop wanted to be faced with being unable to wreak revenge against someone who would sink so low. Yet, this was where they were; neither expecting the circumstances nor wanting to accept the truth of the matter.

Starsky slipped his arm on top of Hutch's. "Go on, ya big lug," he said, nodding towards the door, "before you collapse and turn into a lumpy floor mat."

Hutch squeezed Starsky's shoulder firmly and left. Staring at the empty doorway, Starsky suddenly felt very alone even with his sister only a few feet away. The room grew quiet and still, as if time had ground to a halt. Unexpectedly, a flash of self-awareness struck. This was exactly what his life had become—an empty corner of the universe devoid of meaning or purpose. Friends and family hovered near the perimeter, occasionally managing to break through its barrier but were repeatedly casted out when they did.

What Starsky choose to keep close to his heart was the loneliness and pain that saturated his broken body. These unwanted feelings had become a vital part of him, surrounding his soul and shielding it like an impenetrable wall from well-intentioned invasions. Even his spirit, broken time after time, bit by bit, was incapable of clinging onto the slightest bit of happiness or hope anymore. Now, staring at Bree lying there critically ill, he couldn't concentrate on wishing to see her recover; only on the hate and vengefulness that burned in his heart. Who, or what, was he anymore? Did he even have a sense of compassion or a drop of forgiveness left?

Starsky sighed heavily and sat down in the chair next to Bree's bed. Closing his eyes, he leaned forward and bowed his head, letting it rest heavily in his hands. Memories started to trickle in; ones he wished he could forget. The terrifying seconds right before a hail of machine gun fire erupted out of a speeding patrol car; the sharp sting of the first hot bullet tearing through his chest, then a second and a third. He remembered the suffocating jolt seizing his lungs and tightening, as if King Kong had closed a huge fist around him instead of Fay Wray. He could recall trying to grab onto the Torino but sliding off of it instead, his body refusing to obey. Then lastly, the sense of being sucked deeper and deeper into a vast abyss, while everything around him turned black and silent.

Starsky opened his eyes and raised his head. Experiencing the peaceful stillness around him helped to slowly clear away the horrors from that day. He stared at the knitted pattern of the thin blanket covering Bree, then studied the mass of tubes and wires leading to various pumps and monitors. Despite the chaos of all the tangled lines, hanging IV bottles, and the pumping ventilator, there seemed to be a veil of serenity surrounding Bree. Through his own experience of being in a coma, Starsky sensed his sister was oblivious to the all the turmoil going on. Unconsciousness was nature's way of sparing people the agony of having to deal with excruciating pain, and Starsky had been grateful for his first few days of nothingness; even if the waking up part had taken some getting used to.

Resigned to spending the night sleeping on thinly padded chairs, Starsky reached over and dragged another one in front of his. Positioning it just right, he stretched his legs out on the seat and settled in as best as he could. The first twitch of soreness from his side was a reminder that he hadn't brought his pain medication, but there was nothing he could do. Sucking up the discomfort, he closed his eyes and hoped that exhaustion had a clear shot at him now.

.

A high-pitched warning blare coming from one of the machines by his head woke Starsky up. At first he didn't think the rude awakening was any different from the numerous ones he'd had during the night, but as his sleep-deprived brain kicked into second gear, there was no doubt something was seriously wrong.

He kicked the chair in front of him away and scrambled to his feet. One nurse, followed by another, rushed into the room. Starsky reluctantly stepped back when the first nurse, Carol, bent over Bree and the other turned off the alarm.

Carol reached above the bed and grabbed a rubber bag attached to a thin hose connected to the wall. She disconnected the ventilator from the endotracheal tube going into Bree's mouth and snapped the bag on. Carol's coworker moved in closer to help suction Bree's lungs. Starsky cringed as gurgling sounds filled the room.

"Thanks, Marcy," Carol said.

"What's wrong with her? What's happening?" Starsky felt helpless standing on the sidelines. He knew there wasn't much he could contribute right then, but that did little to stem his growing panic.

Suctioning the endo tube for the second time, Carol lifted her head. "She's got a lot of fluid in her lungs," she replied, and quickly peered over to the monitors. "That's probably why the alarm went off."

Her actions seemed to indicate that Starsky should've known what all the blinking numbers meant. Before he could throw out another question, Carol added, "The fluid could be causing her oxygen level to drop. She's not breathing very well and too much carbon dioxide is building up in her lungs. We should probably get a blood gas."

Starsky swallowed hard. He'd had some personal experience with what was happening but only knew it signaled a bad turn.

"I'll call the lab and have Doctor Chapman paged," Marcy said as she picked up the phone on the nightstand and began punching in numbers.

Within a few moments, a few more people entered the room forcing Starsky back to a corner. Feeling completely helpless, he kept his eyes glued on every hand that either touched or swept by his sister. If only he had something to do, hold the airbag, hand someone a scalpel; anything other than stand like a rubber-necker watching the aftermath of a car crash.

Fear continued to build as precious seconds ticked away. Marcy persisted with her suctioning efforts, but the look on her face indicated anything but relief. Just when Starsky could've sworn that Bree's face was starting to turn blue, a man wearing a stethoscope around his neck walked in through the door.

"What's her condition?" he hurriedly asked.

Starsky didn't pay attention to the nurse's explanation. His attention was on Bree and the flashing lights on the monitors. He thought about Rachel. She would blame herself for not being here, and him too, since he had insisted she go home for the night. Shoving that concern aside, Starsky focused back on the center of activity. The actions of the medical personnel had become more frantic. The doctor was in the middle of the fracas; his head popping up to gaze at a screen, then dropping down to check his patient.

Little by little, everyone gradually stopped working and stood very still, watching either the doctor or a monitor. Starsky held his breath as his gaze shifted to the neon green streak moving erratically across the EKG screen. The line nearly went flat, almost making his heart stop, but when one blip appeared again, slowly followed by another, Starsky cautiously breathed in a sigh of relief. As determination replaced mind-numbing shock, Starsky edged in between two nurses and right up to the doctor. He needed answers and fast.

"Okay, everyone," Starsky heard him say, "she's finally got a decent sinus rhythm. Nurse Myers, I need those blood gas results right away from the lab."

"Doc," Starsky said, getting his attention, "what happened?" He hadn't seen this doctor before but Starsky wasn't going to let a skipped introduction get in the way.

The middle-aged man adjusted his eyeglasses, pulling them down a little lower on his nose. "I'm sorry," he remarked. "Are you a relative?"

"Yes, I'm her brother…David Starsky." Starsky could feel the doctor's calm nature having an effect on his growing apprehension. Maybe a softer approach would work better here.

A few of the nurses left as the doctor held out his hand. "I'm Doctor Chapman," he said, introducing himself. "I was actually on my way up here to check on your sister when they alerted me. Doctor Ames filled me in earlier on Bree's condition—terrible thing that happened to her."

Starsky shook the man's hand, but pleasantries were just delaying matters. "Yes," Starsky said, "but what made the machines go off? Did she have some sort of setback?"

Starsky cringed at even saying that word. During his latest stay at this 'resort,' Hutch had told him about a few of his setbacks, ones Starsky had been too sick to remember.

"I believe she might have experienced a condition of atelectasis, or maybe even a case of acute respiratory acidosis…"

"_Dammit,"_ Starsky thought. _"Don't these guys ever speak English?"_ Before he could interrupt though, Chapman fortunately must have read Starsky's mind.

"It's an air exchange problem that's occurring in her lungs. Basically, the ventilator is not helping her breathe effectively so too much carbon dioxide is building up in her blood."

"Yeah, that's what one of the nurses mentioned…before you got here. So what's causing it?" Starsky glanced over at the ventilator. "Is it that machine?"

Doctor Chapman followed his gaze. "Partially, yes. The ventilator can help a patient stay alive by breathing for them, but it certainly isn't a substitute for real lungs. What I think is happening, is that your sister's respirations are being compromised by the medication she's on, plus having to be hooked up to a mechanical respirator. I'll run this by Doctor Ames, but we should try and see if she can breathe on her own now, and start reducing her medications."

Starsky thought about the doctor's explanation as he watched the last nurse leave the room. Something about Chapman's plan of action didn't make sense, though. "If you cut back on her pain meds, isn't she gonna feel that? I mean, even if she's unconscious?"

"I see what you're getting at," he said, "and it is a Catch-22. Should we keep her sedated and on the ventilator, or try to get her body to take over breathing naturally, yet potentially cause more pain?"

"Yeah, exactly," Starsky said evenly.

Chapman crossed both arms over his chest. "Your sister is young, and was in good health before this attack. That's always a plus. Personally, I'd rather lean towards giving that youthfulness a chance at helping her heal, rather than keeping it suppressed. For now, I've given her a bronchodilator; it'll help her lungs expand a little more. When Doctor Ames arrives…" Chapman paused as he glanced at his watch, "in about four hours, I'll see what he thinks. Fair enough?"

"Guess so," Starsky muttered. He looked back at Bree, wishing she would wake up and open her eyes.

"By the way," Chapman asked, "are you a police officer?"

"Detective," Starsky answered, turning to the man.

"Ah, I thought I remembered Doctor Ames saying that about you." When Chapman paused, Starsky wondered what else the good doctor had said; hopefully, nothing about a miracle patient surviving four gunshots. "I just hope your department is doing everything possible to find who did this. Someone like that certainly doesn't deserve to be out on the streets."

"No, they don't," Starsky replied.

Chapman patted him on the shoulder. "We'll take good care of your sister, Detective. That's a promise."

Starsky acknowledged him with a quick smile then watched as the doctor left the room. He stepped closer to Bree's bedside and after a moment of consideration, reached down and grabbed hold of her hand.

"And you've got my promise, too, sis. I'll find whoever did this, you better believe it."

.

For the next couple of hours, Starsky catnapped in his chair. Sometimes a nurse checking on Bree would wake him; other times the annoying pain in his side would do the trick. When six o'clock finally arrived, Starsky couldn't take it anymore. He left the hospital and headed home, but not before stopping at a little Mom 'n Pop store that always opened up early. After picking up some eggs, milk and bread, Starsky figured that'd be enough food for breakfast.

When he got home and opened the front door, Starsky wasn't surprised to see Rachel in the kitchen.

"Davey! Is everything all right?" Rachel was still in her nightgown, and looked like she hadn't gotten any more sleep than he did.

"Hi, Mom." Starsky met her halfway in the living room. Presenting the brown grocery bag, he said, "Picked up a few things from the store."

Rachel glanced at the bag, before looking up at his face. "You look awful, Davey. How is Bree?"

Starsky felt his shoulders drop as he went into the kitchen and placed the sack on the counter. "She had a little problem last night—"

"A little problem?" Rachel gripped the lapel on her nightgown and wrapped the garment tighter around her. "What happened? Is she all right?"

Seeing the fear in Rachel's eyes caught Starsky unprepared to give her a truthful answer. She was right, though, he was tired. Dead tired, and ever since pulling up in the driveway, all he wanted to do was to snatch the bottle of pain pills in the bathroom and down half the bottle. But, unfortunately, that would have to wait.

"Something about her not breathing right, because of the drugs and the ventilator." When Rachel's face paled even more, Starsky reached out with both hands and cupped his mother's shoulders. "She's doing okay, Ma. One of her doctors is thinking about taking her off that machine. He thinks she might get better faster without it."

There were still signs of confusion on Rachel's face, but the tenseness had diminished. "But when you left, she was breathing good, yes?"

"Yes, she was doing…okay."

Rachel nodded her head, more as a resignation than a gesture of acceptance. She patted Starsky's hands and headed to the kitchen.

"Why don't you take a shower, _liebchen_," she said, poking her head in the grocery bag. "I'll fix us some breakfast. I made some fresh coffee, if you want it."

"Sure, I'll drink some in a bit."

Satisfied that he'd given Rachel the best version he could of the latest news, Starsky made a beeline to the bathroom. Closing the door behind him, he quickly found the pill bottle and snapped the white plastic lid off. Almost deciding to take a triple dose, he settled for double and downed the two capsules with a full glass of water. Starsky wiped his mouth with his arm and stared at his haggard reflection in the bathroom mirror. _God, you look like shit._

He ran a hand through his hair, but the effort didn't seem to improve the reflected image. Shaking his head, he started to unbutton his shirt and went over to turn on the shower. As the steam from the warm water began to rise up from behind the glass door, Starsky shed the last of his clothing and gratefully stepped into the welcoming spray.

_Don't worry, you'll find him. Maybe even before Hutch can…_

_._

_TBC_


	11. Chapter 11

Thanks everyone!

.

**Chapter 11**

**.**

A week later, Bree's condition had improved remarkably. Soon after being taken off the ventilator, she'd started to show some signs of consciousness. The biggest event had occurred yesterday afternoon, when she opened her eyes for a few minutes with Rachel as a witness. Because of that, convincing the woman to leave the hospital last night had nearly proven impossible. Only when the nurses promised to call if Bree woke up again, did Rachel agree to go home with Starsky.

Both he and Hutch wanted to sit with Bree every night, but with one working fulltime and Starsky being at the hospital at least sixteen hours each day, fatigue and lack of sleep were driving both men crazy. A schedule of sorts had been worked out that involved one of them staying with Bree until around two o'clock in the morning. Even with the short break during the early hours, neither felt comfortable with the idea, considering Rachel's stubborn insistence to be at her daughter's side twenty-four hours a day.

With all this weighing on his mind, Starsky tossed and turned on his living room couch. He knew he was helping by just being there for Bree, but that didn't slow the amount of frustration and anger growing in him with each passing day. All he could think about while sitting in the ICU was hitting the streets with Hutch looking for the bastard responsible. But with no badge or gun, he wasn't going to get very far. Even if he had the resources, chances were it wouldn't make a difference. The amount of information gathered so far on this case could fit into a thimble. Hutch and Kent had been working nonstop, yet weren't any closer to finding a suspect or a new lead. With no other sexual assaults recently taking place, their job was only getting harder by the hour.

Releasing a long sigh, Starsky closed his eyes and tried to shove those depressing thoughts away for the night. Maybe tomorrow Bree would do something significant again, give them a small measure of hope to cling to. Letting that optimistic wish take over his brain, Starsky drifted off in an exhausted slumber.

.

_He was happily strolling down the hall, intent on_ _reaching Bree's room. The hospital interior looked so much brighter today. The walls and ceilings were pearly white, the floors practically glistening. There was no smell of ammonia or disinfectant, or even a faint odor of sickness. Starsky passed by a few nurses, their crisp uniforms and pleasant smiles nearly matching the surrounding air. _

_When he stepped into Bree's room, it was if he'd arrived at a heavenly palace. Iridescent sunlight streamed in through crystal glass windows. Healthy, green fronds potted in glazed ceramic planters decorated the corners. Two satin-draped loungers were positioned nearby, their lavender color mixing well with the cream-tinted walls. In the middle of the room was a brass bed, fitted with blue silk covers that hung down on each side and just barely licked the floor. Bree was sitting in the middle of the mattress. She lifted her head and smiled at him._

"_Hey, big brother," she said._

"_Hey, yourself." Starsky gazed at her. She seemed healthy and vibrant, her dark purple dress highlighting her ash brown hair. "Are they letting you go home?" he asked expectantly._

"_Not today," Bree answered, "but soon."_

_Starsky stepped closer to the bed. "You're looking good. How do you feel?"_

"_I feel rested."_

"_No pain?" Starsky took a good look at her face. There were no marks or bruises._

_Bree gently shook her head. "I feel fine. Don't you?"_

_Her question caught Starsky by surprise. He hesitantly glanced down at his own body, wondering if he had some unknown injury. Not finding any indication of one, he focused back on Bree._

"_Did you see who attacked you?" he gently asked. "Can you describe him?"_

_Bree's smile flattened a little, but her eyes remained bright. "I don't need to describe him, David, you know him well."_

_Starsky pressed forward. He _knew_ this bastard? "Who, Bree? Who is it?" His mouth started to salivate in anticipation of an answer. Starsky could feel the tension in his hands tighten. All he wanted to do right then was to wrap them around this guy's throat._

_Unexpectedly, Bree turned away. Starsky sensed an air of hesitation about her, as if the last thing she wanted was to divulge the name of her attacker. He approached the bedside and slowly sat down beside her. She didn't react to his presence, but kept staring out the window. Her silence, although partly understandable, was only adding to his confusion. After allowing a few minutes to pass, Starsky broke the silence._

"_Bree, tell me…tell me and I swear, he won't lay a finger on another—"_

"_Davey, you shouldn't live with so much anger in your heart," she said, interrupting him. "Anger is what causes people to hate. And that hate ends up destroying lives…and innocent people." Bree turned and faced him. "I know you have a fire burning in your soul, but you need to learn how to control it. If you don't, it will destroy you, David; sooner or later."_

"_I just want to make sure you get justice, Bree," Starsky ventured. "Is that so wrong?"_

"_No, but how much are you willing to sacrifice in order to achieve that? Your integrity? Your honor? Your soul?"_

_Starsky paused, giving Bree's answer a moment of deliberation. "As much as I want to hurt him like he hurt you," he began, "what I want more is to see him rot in jail. And I can't do that by throwing my scruples out the door."_

"_Is that what you truly believe?" Bree asked firmly._

"_Yes, it is."_

_She kept staring at him, as if she expected to hear something more. But Starsky had been honest, at least as honest as a vengeful brother could be. Finally, her chest heaved as Bree took in a deep breath. Starsky held his own breath and waited._

"_It was Suko, Davey. Frankie Suko."_

_._

Starsky awoke gasping for air. He frantically swiped his arm through the darkness in the living room, trying to find his watch lying somewhere on the coffee table. Squinting at the tiny glowing dots, he cussed and shot up from the couch. He stumbled over to the kitchen, but not before hitting his shin on an end table. Starsky grabbed the telephone and carefully punched a set of numbers on the receiver's lighted squares.

"'_ello._" Hutch's gravelly voice came on the line after five rings.

"Hutch, I know who attacked Bree," Starsky blurted out. Not waiting for a response, he added, "It was Frank Suko."

A long pause followed his announcement. Starsky was just about to ask if Hutch was still there when a surly, _"Starsky…are you drunk?"_ rumbled from the other end.

"No, of course not," he answered. "Hutch, listen to me. It's him. I know it's him."

There was more silence, then a faint rustling. Hutch returned, sounding only slightly clearer. _"Starsk, Frank Suko is dead. Don't you remember me telling you that a couple of weeks ago?"_

"I know what you said, Hutch, but I'm sure about this."

"_Okay, I'll bite. What in the world makes you so sure?"_

Starsky inadvertently pulled the phone away from his ear, trying to think of a way to phrase his answer so that Hutch wouldn't just hang up on him. Deciding that honesty was the best policy, he pressed the mouthpiece to his lips. "Because that's who Bree said attacked her."

"_You spoke to Bree? Are you at the hospital?"_

Hutch's excitement lit up the phone line, which only made answering him that much harder. "No, I'm not at the hospital…" Starsky bit his lip. Instinct was already giving him a clue to Hutch's next question. "Look, I didn't actually _talk_ to Bree…she told me in a dream."

Several long, uncomfortable moments passed without any sound coming from Hutch. Starsky nervously tapped his finger on the counter. Maybe he should have waited a few more hours before calling.

"_Starsky,"_ Hutch groaned, _"why don't you go back to bed? Maybe you'll have another dream and come up with a better name."_

The momentary skepticism from his partner wasn't going to deter Starsky. "Hutch, what'd be the harm in checkin' it out? That's all I'm saying."

A loud sigh drifted out of the handset. _"Okay, fine. Jeff and I will go up to the state prison in the morning. Good night."_

The dial tone buzzing in his ear upset Starsky, but what Hutch just said made him feel even more dejected. Starsky couldn't deny the part of him that still wanted to race around in the Torino chasing after the bad guy. That was the stuff all cops dreamed about.

And he'd lived that dream for many years, accepting the good with the bad, because he always believed he was making a difference. Detective First Class David Michael Starsky. Criminals had feared him, little old ladies had worshiped the ground he walked on. He'd been honored by the police commissioner and respected among his colleagues. Outlaws had fled like roaches in his presence. Had…had…had. All past tense.

"So much for the glory days," Starsky whispered out to the dark room.

He hung up the phone and negotiated between the furniture to the couch. Settling back down on the makeshift bed, Starsky ran a hand over the tender bump on his shin. No doubt he'd have a bruise there tomorrow, but that was the least of his concerns. Hutch had probably already dismissed the phone call as some crazy antic from his _former_ partner. And as far as finding a living, breathing Frank Suko locked up in prison, well, that sure as hell wasn't likely to happen.

Still, the dream felt so real._ It's gotta be true, it just has to be._

Starsky let his head sink into the pillow. Maybe tomorrow would be a _good _day. God only knows he was due for one.

.

Hutch pulled the LTD up to the iron gate and waited for one of the guards inside the kiosk to come outside. He reached inside his jacket and grabbed his wallet. Elbowing Kent, he asked, "Got your badge and ID handy?"

Jeff pulled a little leather case from his hip pocket. "You really think we're gonna find this Fuko guy here?" he said, handing the wallet over.

"You mean, Suko," Hutch corrected.

"Suko, Fuko. You said he was killed by another inmate. We supposed to believe someone made a mistake and this guy is still alive in here hammering out license plates?"

Hutch didn't answer. Instead, he took Kent's wallet and, along with his, handed them to the guard outside his car window. The middle-age man dressed in navy blues took a hard look at the credentials, then squatted down and warily studied both detectives.

Giving the wallets back to Hutch, he said, "Admin is in the first brick building on your left. Park where it says 'Visitors Only' not 'Employees Only.' You'll need to pick up a release slip from the duty sergeant and have him sign it before I can let you back out."

"Thank you, officer," Hutch said flatly, with as much enthusiasm as the guard had shown.

He waited for the electronic gate to slide open, then gunned the LTD into the fenced compound. After parking the car, he and Kent marched to the one-story administration building and went inside. They quickly found a receptionist sitting behind a metal desk, feverishly typing away at some paperwork.

"I'm Detective Hutchinson, and this is Detective Kent," Hutch said, offering a sincere smile to the young, twenty-something female. Her youthful looks and hair style reminded him of Bree, or at least what his lover should look like. "We're here to see the assistant superintendent, a Mr. Warren Zimler?" he continued.

"Oh, of course, Mr. Zimler is expecting you. His office is just down the hall." She stood up from her seat and motioned them to follow her. Feeling guilty, Hutch glanced at the back hem of her snug-fitting skirt, trying to make no other notes except that her legs looked long and athletic. Forcing his mind back to the job at hand, Hutch scanned the interior of the hallway. It was scarcely different from Metro. The same dull, lime green floor tile and off-white plaster-coated walls, decorated here and there with pictures of uniformed men and a public safety poster or two.

Their guide stopped in front of a closed door and knocked a couple of times. Hearing a male voice, she opened the door and stepped back so Hutch and Kent could enter.

Warren Zimler dropped the file folder he was holding and smiled warmly at his visitors. "You must be the detectives from Bay City," he announced, stepping out from behind his desk. The man was fairly short, about five foot five, and judging by his pudgy stomach probably weighed at least two hundred pounds.

"I'm Ken Hutchinson," Hutch said, shaking the man's hand.

Kent followed right behind him. "And I'm Jeff Kent."

"Glad to meet you both, won't you have a seat?" Warren gestured to two vacant chairs. When Hutch and Kent had sat down, the assistant superintendent returned to his seat. He gathered a few loose papers and set those off to the side. Adjusting one jacket sleeve, and then the other, he said, "If my secretary has informed me correctly, you're here for some information about one of our former prisoners."

"Former," Kent interjected, "as in, he's not here anymore…among the living?"

Zimler's smile diminished. "Former," he repeated, "as in Frank Suko is not currently incarcerated in this facility."

"Excuse me, Mr. Zimler," Hutch said incredulously, "but are you implying that Frank Suko is _not_ dead?"

"I don't think I'm in a position to say, with certainty, that Mr. Suko is either alive or dead. What I am in a position to say, is he's no longer one of our inmates."

Hutch mentally shook his head. Aside from the word games being played, certainly Zimler's intention wasn't to have had them waste time and gas coming here. Trying to keep his voice level, Hutch said, "With all due respect, sir, I was informed by someone from this facility, barely a week ago, that Frank Suko was dead. Now, just who _would_ be in a position to confirm his current whereabouts or if he's actually still alive?"

Zimler hunched forward in his leather chair. "I can assure you, Detective Hutchinson, that whoever contacted you was not an employee of this prison." He picked up a business card that was lying on his desk. "My suggestion is to call this man," he said, handing the card to Hutch. "And that's all I'm in position to do. I hope you'll understand."

Hutch took note of the tiny gold shield in the upper corner and the name and title printed in bold, black letters. "Special Agent Rick Palchuk, Major Crimes Division," he read, showing the card to Kent. "Federal Bureau of Investigation, Los Angeles, California."

.

Back at Memorial ICU, Starsky shifted in his chair, hoping that circulation would return to the right side of his butt. He casually glanced at the clock on the wall. Almost three-thirty. Earlier that morning, Hutch had said he and Kent were meeting with someone at the prison at eleven. Since Starsky hadn't heard from either of them, there was no telling how the meeting had gone, and the lack of news was trying Starsky's patience. _Would it kill someone to give him a phone call?_

He glanced over at Rachel sitting by the window. She was reading a paperback, some romance novel she'd purchased downstairs in the gift shop. A few hours ago, when Bree was moving her head and blinking her eyes, they had tried to get her to respond, but to no avail. Disappointed, Rachel had gone for a short walk. When she returned, she had brought two candy bars for Starsky, and the book.

Tired of sitting, Starsky got up and stretched his stiff legs. He debated over going downstairs or just taking a walk around the ICU floor, neither of which really appealed to him. Rachel put her book down and peered at him just when Starsky heard someone come into the room.

"Hey," he said, greeting Hutch with a nod.

Hutch gave a half smile and walked to Bree's bedside. Starsky noticed a uniformed officer standing in the hallway. Curious, he went over to Hutch, hoping to get an explanation for the cop's presence.

"How's she been doing?" Hutch asked. He gripped the bedrail with both hands and leaned slightly over Bree.

"She opened her eyes again," Rachel chimed in happily. She got up and stood beside him. "I think it won't be too much longer and she'll be awake again."

Rachel patted Bree's forearm lovingly. Hutch gazed at his lover, examining her from head to toe, then back again.

Tired of waiting for an answer from Hutch, Starsky uttered a soft "ahem." As soon as his partner's eyes met his, Starsky nodded at the doorway. Hutch's only response was a barely acknowledgeable head dip. Rachel's reaction was a bit livelier.

"Kenneth, why is there a policeman at the door?"

Hutch glanced over his shoulder. "It's just a precaution, Mrs. Starsky," he said, with an uneasy smile. "There's a chance we may have identified the man who attacked Bree."

Rachel gasped. "You know who did this to my daughter? Have you arrested him?"

Starsky looked squarely at Hutch. There was very little keeping him from charging out of Bree's room to find the scum responsible for hurting her. And if Hutch didn't say something soon, he'd be eating some of Starsky's dust.

"We haven't arrested anyone yet," Hutch solemnly announced, "but we're a lot closer than where we were this morning."

Hutch's answer seemed to satisfy Rachel. She nodded and returned to her seat. Starsky, however, wasn't quite as pleased. He caught Hutch's eye and stared hard enough to convince him that this Brooklyn native was at the end of his rope _and_ his patience. Fortunately, his partner read him perfectly.

"Uh, Rachel, would you excuse Starsky and me for a moment?"

Hutch showed Rachel his most pleading look, even raising his eyebrows to emphasize the gesture.

"You boys go and talk," Rachel said, opening up her paperback. "I'll stay here and do what I can."

Starsky wanted to leap over Bree's bed and give his mother a big kiss. Although not normally someone who preferred to be left out of the loop, Rachel usually knew when to wait and when to demand an answer.

Once he'd joined Hutch out in the hallway, they walked down to the waiting room. Fortunately, it was empty.

"Alright, spill," Starsky demanded as soon as they entered. "What's up with the guard dog?"

The 'I-never-saw-it-coming' look slowly materialized on his partner's face.

"Hutch, what?"

"I think you're right about Frank Suko being a possible suspect."

Starsky's jaw nearly fell off his face. "Are you sure? He's _not_ dead?"

"Well, according to one Special Agent Rick Palchuk, Frank Suko's been in the witness protection program for at least a month."

The news hit hard. Even though he'd been sure about what he'd seen in his dream, Starsky wasn't prepared to hear it for real from Hutch. "Witness protection?" he asked incredulously. "Just how does a scum like him end up skippin' out of prison and into a free house?"

"By turning government's witness against his old crime syndicate. Seems like our friend had a lot of information the FBI wanted to hear."

Starsky turned away in frustration. This wasn't happening. He'd dropped kidnapping and assault charges on that bastard, and now Suko wasn't even going to spend time in the slammer for what the district attorney _had_ managed to charge him with?

Hutch came from behind and laid a hand on Starsky's shoulder. "If Suko is responsible, we'll get him."

"So what?" Starsky hissed, spinning around. "So he can sing to some other three piece suit and be handed another 'get out of jail free' card?"

"No!" Hutch fired back. "Palchuk said if we find out it was Suko who attacked Bree, he'll personally lock up that dirt bag and throw away the key." Lowering his voice, Hutch added, "Partner, I know what he did to you, and Bree. And in my book, _nobody_ gets away with that."

Starsky studied his face. Hutch was being serious, he knew that, but it wasn't like they were the Dynamic Duel anymore. "I guess you and the kid better get out there and find him then," Starsky said, unable to hide his disappointment.

"Starsky," Hutch said, grabbing his arm, "I'm looking at the only partner I'll ever want. Look, I've been thinking, goin' after Suko, maybe it'd be better if one of us wasn't carrying a badge."

Hutch's eyes widened, emphasizing his last point.

"What are you sayin', Hutch?" Starsky asked, lowering his voice. "That I'm supposed to turn vigilante?"

"No, of course not! But face it, Starsk, you know getting through doors is a lot easier for a civilian."

Hutch had a point. Cops had laws and codes they were required to follow, which got in the way when rules need bending. If Starsky stayed on the outside, chances were he'd be able to navigate through more roadblocks than Hutch could.

"So when do we start goin' after this son-of-a-bitch?"

.

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

Thanks for reading!

.

**Chapter 12**

**.**

That evening, Hutch, Kent and Starsky were out on the street contacting every snitch they could find. While details on Suko's whereabouts remained protected due to his agreement with the FBI, all three detectives felt there was a good chance he was in the area. Each had pooled some money together, enough to make it tempting for anyone coming forward with the right information. Unlike the time Hutch had begged for leads after Starsky was kidnapped, people were popping out from every nook and cranny wanting to talk.

But after several hours had gone by without any luck, the trio reluctantly decided to pick up their quest the following morning. After meeting back at Huggy's, Hutch dropped Kent off at his car.

"So, same game plan again tomorrow?" Kent asked Hutch.

"Yeah, we'll just have to start shaking the trees a little harder. Someone out there knows something…we just have to find them."

The young detective nodded an acknowledgement and got in his car. Hutch watched him drive away, then pulled the LTD alongside the Torino so he could talk more with Starsky.

"Did you find _anything_ promising out there tonight?" he asked, turning off the engine.

Starsky leaned back in his seat. "Nope. Couple of people tried to make me think they knew somethin', but they didn't."

Hutch rubbed his tired eyes, feeling the stress of the day catching up to him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so beat, probably the day after Gunther's rampage. Thinking back, Hutch didn't know how he'd made it through those long, endless hours; wondering if Starsky was going to make it or not. So much of that horrible period was a blur, but his partner had pulled through, and all the misery leading up to then had mercifully faded away. Yet now another loved one lay critically ill in a hospital, and again Hutch felt like his life was on hold.

Releasing a long sigh, he flopped his arm out the window and let it rest on the sill. For most of the night, he'd been running a plan through his head. It would be risky, but the lack of progress they'd encountered this evening was making this idea seem more and more like their only option. Figuring it was either now or never, he decided to run it by Starsky.

"Hey," Hutch uttered, trying to get his partner's attention. Starsky had his eyes closed, but the tightness in his face alerted Hutch. "You doin' okay?" he asked, suddenly more worried about Starsky than talking about his plan.

"I'm good," Starsky answered, although he hardly sounded convincing.

Temporarily casting aside his immediate plan, Hutch settled uncomfortably in his seat. Old fears rose from his gut; ones that involved his best friend being haunted and torn apart by something he couldn't, or didn't want to share. And all Hutch could do was sit out in the audience, watching as that proverbial curtain was drawn closed between him and Starsky. He cared about that man, but the frustration from pounding on that steel door to Starsky's heart was just too painful to take anymore. He'd tried to get his pal to open up—made him feel guilty about his actions, explained that his silence was alienating the two friends—yet nothing had worked.

"_Hutch, if I'm running away, then it's only because I'm scared of losing you by staying."_

Starsky's words resurfaced from the last time he'd been in Bay City. Hutch had responded to the honest concern by telling Starsky that he'd never lose him. But when Starsky had tried to kill himself months earlier, he didn't seem to be worried about losing Hutch. His excuse—he'd been selfish and wasn't thinking about anyone else. But that wasn't the real reason. The real reason was Starsky had been afraid. Afraid of either him or Hutch being in the wrong place at the wrong time again; of getting hit by bullets meant to kill.

And Hutch hadn't helped matters. He'd wanted Starsky back on the force, like old times. Perhaps most of all, Hutch had been too scared to admit that he couldn't take losing a partner who knew him better than he knew himself. Only he'd never stopped and considered if that was what Starsky wanted—to go out on the streets and be forced to look Death in the face again.

"Did ya hear me?"

Starsky's question yanked Hutch into the present. "Huh?" he asked, trying to remember where their conversation had dropped off.

"I said I was good." Starsky lifted his arm and tried to catch some light from the street on his watch. "I guess I should go back to the hospital and pick up Mom," he said. "She's probably wondering where I'm at."

His friend's imminent departure made Hutch straighten in his seat. Quickly, he mentally skimmed through his plan. _Should he tell Starsky or not?_ Seeing the brunet lean forward to start his engine, Hutch made up his mind.

"Starsk, wait…I, I want to run something by you."

A sad frown appeared on his face, but Starsky stopped and looked at Hutch with genuine interest.

"I was thinking," Hutch began, "there might be someone we can ask who'd know where Suko could be holed up."

"And just who might that be?"

The sarcastic edge in Starsky's voice didn't deter Hutch for long. "Lorenzo Marcini."

The mild expression on Starsky's face instantly vanished. Even in the dark, Hutch could see his partner's eyes glaring in intensity. Turning to stare out the windshield, Starsky let out a disgusted huff and turned on the ignition.

"G'night Hutch," he growled over the sound of the rumbling engine.

"Starsky, wait!" Hutch pulled his arm in and opened the door. The edge hit the candy apple red paint, probably leaving a mark, but apologies would have to wait. Standing in front of Starsky's door, Hutch leaned over and peered into the car. "Now, I know what you're thinkin', partner…"

"Thinking? Now, there's a laugh! Tell ya what, Hutch, you go do your _thinkin'_ elsewhere…just leave me out of it."

"Starsky, I'm serious! Listen to me…please?"

Hutch held his breath, hoping the hothead would at least hear him out. Mentioning the mobster's name had been a gamble. When Bree had initially surprised him and Starsky by suggesting they enlist the mob's help to find Suko, both were against the idea. But when she pursued the matter and booked a flight to the East coast, Hutch had insisted on tagging along. Fortunately, in the end, Lorenzo agreed to hand Suko over to the police. All Hutch could do now was hope for the same outcome.

But the scowl on Starsky's face left no doubt where his feelings on the subject lay. With a loud huff, he angrily reached for the ignition and shut off the Ford's engine. Refusing to look at Hutch, he folded both arms across his chest and stared straight ahead.

_Well, so far so good._

"Look, here's what I think might work," Hutch ventured. "There's no love lost between Lorenzo and Suko, that we know. And even though he cut ties with Frankie back in Jersey, I'm willing to bet Lorenzo wouldn't pass up another chance to see that dirt bag get what he deserves."

Hutch paused and tried to gauge Starsky's reaction. His eyes were still focused straight ahead and his body wound up tighter than a spring coil. Finally, he cocked his head to the side.

"Are you done?" Starsky muttered hotly.

Feeling like he'd reached an impasse, Hutch straightened and took a step back. "Starsky, I just want to find this scum. If using a guy who's got ties to the mob will accomplish that, then I don't see why we shouldn't."

To Hutch's surprise, Starsky threw open his door and leaped out.

"You don't see?" he hollered, slamming the door shut. "Then let me give you a head's up, _buddy_. I lost my Pop because he didn't think holding hands with the mob was such a big deal. Only, in his case, he'd known Durniak since they were kids, long before he became a mobster." Jabbing a finger at Hutch, Starsky was vehement. "Now, if you want to drop a dime, be my guest, but don't expect me to be a part of that…_or you_."

Ignoring the outburst, Hutch stood his ground. "Starsky, whether you like it or not, your sister was doing a little more than holding hands. Now, I don't hold that against her and I know you don't either. But Lorenzo still cares about her; I saw that with my own eyes. If he knew Suko was responsible for—"

"Shut up!" Starsky yelled, giving Hutch a shove backwards. "You don't know what you're saying!"

"Starsky—"

"No, Hutch! Fuck! Can't you hear yourself? You're making it sound like playing footsies with the mob is no big deal!"

Starsky flinched and turned sideways. He coiled an arm around his midsection, let it linger for a moment before dropping it down to his side again. Obviously, he was in pain, but all Hutch could do was stay put and not offer any kind of comfort. Starsky hadn't sought any from him in a long time, which left Hutch no choice but to give his partner some space.

"You know," Starsky remarked roughly after composing himself, "you go and do whatever you think is right. I'm going back to the hospital…pick up Mom."

"Hey," Hutch said, moving closer to Starsky. He waited patiently until their eyes met. "I don't like working solo," he stressed. "If staying away from Lorenzo and the mob is that important then we'll find Suko some other way, deal?"

Starsky stared blankly at him but finally nodded in agreement. He climbed back into the driver's seat, but Hutch stayed still, longing to wrap both arms around the man and never let go. Did Starsky even know how much Hutch cared for him? That he worried night and day, never stopping to entertain the thought that, maybe one day, Starsky would be happy and well again? Ever since Gunther wrecked their lives, and each got tossed far away from the other, life hadn't been the same. Maybe this wasn't all Gunther's fault. Maybe he just opened a wound that had been festering between the two partners for a long time. And as far as Hutch could tell, that wound was still raw.

When Starsky closed the car door, Hutch took a step forward. "Let me know if there's been any change with Bree, okay?"

Starsky nodded again. "Yeah. Same time tomorrow?"

"Sure, eight o'clock. I'll see you at the hospital."

Hutch dug both hands in his pockets and waited until the Torino got to the end of the alley, turned and drove out of sight. Perhaps it would be best to concentrate on finding Suko and solving this case. There was no telling how long it would take Bree to recover, if she ever did, and Starsky's own health was a big unknown. Those things alone were enough to deal with, much less trying to mend a relationship that had grown more convoluted than an Agatha Christie mystery. Maybe it was time to quit beating his head against a brick wall, and, what the hell, stop being a cop, too. The sacrifices were getting too hard to take, and job satisfaction had sunk to a new low. On top of everything else, Hutch was slowly becoming convinced that Starsky's loyalty wasn't the firm foundation he'd grown to know and love.

Shaking his head, he reached for the car door handle.

"Hey, Hutch!"

Surprised by the call, Hutch looked up at the thin figure silhouetted by the opened back door to the Pits. Huggy had waved his arm at him and was trotting over to the LTD.

"Whatcha got, Hug?" he asked, noticing a piece of paper trailing from the man's hand.

"Starsky already take off?"

"Yeah," Hutch said, peering down the alley, "you just missed him."

Huggy nervously glanced at the note he was holding. "I've got a message for him," he said.

"Well, give it to me, I'll make sure he gets it."

Huggy raised his eyes and stared at Hutch. "It's only for Starsky, you dig?"

Shaken a little by the comment, Hutch hurriedly brushed off any discontentment. "Sure, Huggy. I'll…I'll have dispatch try to call him at the hospital."

"I don't think that's necessary."

Hutch did a double take. Now he wasn't sure what Huggy expected him to do.

"What I mean is, I don't think the dude expects a return phone call."

Still confused, Hutch griped, "Huggy, it's kinda been a long day. Do you want me to try and get a hold of Starsky or not?"

"No, that's cool. I'll let him know _manana_."

"Has this got something to do with Frank Suko?" Hutch didn't like what he was sensing from his favorite bartender.

"You might say that," Huggy suggested, sounding coy. With a sterner gaze, he added, "Look, Hutch, I'm just the messenger, _comprende_? I don't ask too many questions…keeps me and mine safer that way."

Hutch understood the insinuation and hesitantly let his concerns go. It'd be up to Starsky whether he wanted to share the contents of the note or not. _Just another post-Gunther change I have to deal with,_ he thought.

"Fine, Huggy. If you get any messages for _me_, I hope you won't be risking too much by asking for their name and phone number."

If Huggy had wanted to respond, Hutch didn't give him the chance. He slid into the Ford's front seat and gunned the engine. Heading towards Venice Place, he debated about going to the hospital instead. He'd missed seeing Bree this evening and the absence was hard to take. Even in a semi-comatose state, she was an island of strength; something he could cling to while the storm surrounding her attack raged outside of the ICU.

Hutch had experienced much of the same feelings when Starsky floundered in and out of his own Neverland. Despite the coma, the manmade wall of IV lines, and the eerie silence from a guy who could put a chatterbox to shame, Hutch still had a link that threaded out from the chaos. Call it _caring_, or _concern_ or just plain _love_, it had been cultivated and nurtured through years of friendship and dependence on each other. Not only had this force weathered times when the department's top brass threatened to kick the two unconventional cops out on their asses, it had also survived those periods when each could've ended their relationship and gone the other way. This mystical lifeline had been the glue that held two souls together in an unbreakable bond. And now with that connection tearing at the seams, Hutch had to wonder how long it would hold.

Approaching the last major intersection before arriving at Venice Place, Hutch stopped for the red light. If he turned onto Pico Boulevard, he could be at the hospital in ten minutes. When the light turned green, he pressed on the gas pedal. This time, tiredness had won the debate. Choosing to get an earlier start tomorrow morning, Hutch kept going straight and steered the LTD home.

.

Back in his apartment, Hutch decided to forego taking a shower. He striped off his clothes, turned out all the lights and immediately dove into bed. He stretched out his long arms and legs, trying to get the tight, aching muscles to relax. The traffic outside was unusually quiet and the serene atmosphere of his room promised a quick descent into oblivion. Shoving everything from his mind, he closed his eyes and willed his conscious to sleep.

.

_Walking down the dimly light hallway, Hutch turned and went into the squad room. It must have been nighttime because the precinct seemed only half lit by fluorescent bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Out of the corner of his eye, Hutch noticed a few detectives working nearby but his main focus was the lovely woman perched on his desk beneath a bright spotlight. Her sleek, brown hair touched lightly on her shoulders, and the pearl-white, knee-length dress she wore shone like a beacon against the rest of the drab-colored interior._

_Approaching the surreal figure, Hutch was drawn to her tanned and shapely legs hanging over the edge of the table. Her right leg was crossed over the left and bouncing gently, as if to the beat of a pop song. Following the attractive features back up to her face, Hutch felt himself smile when their eyes met._

"_Hello, Bree."_

_She smiled back at him, but didn't answer._

"_What are you doing here?" Hutch glanced around the room, expecting to see his partner close by. "Is Starsky here?"_

_The smile on Bree's face unexpectedly went flat. "Of course he's not here," she replied, much like a child would. "That's a dumb question."_

"_Dumb? Why…" Hutch shook his head, trying to rack his brain for an answer. "Why wouldn't he be here? We're both working today."_

"_Don't you know?" Bree uncrossed her legs and slid off the table to face him. "David's not here anymore."_

_At first, a stuttered huff was the only sound Hutch could make. "Bree, enough with the jokes. Where's Starsky?"_

_Hutch stared at his lover, not sure why she was playing this game with him. His mind was racing, trying to remember the last time he'd seen his partner. Had something occurred that he didn't know about? Something serious…again? Bree's eyes stayed sincere and unfaltering. Whatever the truth was, she wasn't giving any indication that she was lying._

_Taking a step closer, Hutch raised a hand, intending to lay it on Bree's shoulder. Startled, she drew back, acting as if he were about to strike her._

"_Hey," he said, stunned. "What's going on? Tell me, Bree!"_

"_I'm sorry, Ken," she said, instantly somber. "You'll have to ask someone else."_

_Before Hutch could respond, the door to Dobey's office flew open. The captain stepped out of the darkened room and stopped. Hutch had never seen him look sadder._

"_Hutch, it's Starsky…"_

_._

Hutch awakened in a panic, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He scanned the dim interior of his bedroom, attempting to convince himself what he'd just experienced was a dream. Seeing nothing that looked unfamiliar, Hutch settled back down on the mattress and tried to calm his nerves. The last moment of the dream kept haunting him, though. It had been too real; too vivid.

In a vain attempt to wipe the nightmare away, Hutch ran a hand across his face. Had the dream been an omen, or just his fears materializing in some tortuous way? On the one hand, Bree had never looked more stunning. The term 'angelic' even crossed his mind. But that brought in even more worries. Was Bree going to die, and make Starsky do—

Flinging the covers off, Hutch sat up in bed and reached for the phone on his night stand. Barely thinking about the time, he dialed Starsky's number and waited anxiously for someone to answer. With his heart starting to race, Hutch didn't know what to do next if the phone kept ringing. Finally, on the fifth ring, the line picked up.

"Hello?"

For what seemed like an eternity, Hutch remained completely still while the adrenaline drained away.

"Starsk…it's me," he muttered, so full of relief, he could barely talk.

"What's up? Somethin' happening?" Starsky's voice hummed through the receiver, calming Hutch like nothing else could.

"I…I was wondering, how's Bree doing?"

It wasn't hard to envision Starsky shaking his head at that question, but Hutch couldn't reveal the true intention of his call.

"She's hangin' in there. Mom said she looked like she'd been resting okay."

"That's good to hear…thanks."

There was a pause for a few seconds, then Starsky said, "Anything else?"

"No…have a good night."

"Yeah, you too."

Ignoring the buzzing dial tone, Hutch kept holding the handset close to his head. Had he really thought Starsky would try to kill himself again? When Hutch had seen him earlier today, Starsky seemed happy to be out on the streets. Of course, he wasn't working as a cop, but at least Starsky was helping to find Suko, or whoever attacked Bree.

Still, Hutch had mixed feelings. He deeply wanted his old partner back, but the likelihood of that happening drew more improbable with each passing day. Years of witnessing and experiencing the worst of humanity had irreversibly affected them both; that and four metal slugs to Starsky's back. Also, there'd been no indication Starsky had made his mind up about returning to the department fulltime. With their job being what it was, Hutch wasn't sure he could continue to work on the streets without someone he trusted implicitly.

_Gunther won, he won, all right. Maybe not like he would've wanted to, but he did._

Starsky's haunting words returned from the past. Hutch hadn't tried to understand it back then, thinking the comment was something better left untouched. But now, its meaning was clear. Those machine gun slugs had done their insidious work; severed that connection between him and Starsky in a way only death could've mastered. The bullets may not have killed his partner, but they had ended the next best thing—Starsky's spontaneity, that ever-burning, impulsive spirit that lit up his whole being.

Hutch had seen him falter after Rothman's wrath was over, but in true Starsky fashion, he'd recovered from that setback and stepped right back into his job. Now, Hutch wondered if Starsky had really become whole after that dreadful encounter. Or if all the other times when madmen had broken through the duo's line of defense and hurt either one of them, had they ever—truly—been the same?

Rubbing his hands against his face, Hutch forced himself to remember those dark moments. The car crashes, the shootings, the poisonings…

"_God, what were we thinking?_" he mumbled.

That they were invincible? Maybe, but more like _inseparable_. You get hurt, I'll always be there; I get hurt, you'll always be there. No matter what we come up against, it'll be me and thee.

_What a crock_. _It's a wonder both of our naïve asses aren't planted six feet under somewhere._

But that pact had kept them working as a team, perhaps not as indestructible as they envisioned themselves, but as partners…good partners. So why weren't they _still_ good partners? Being paired with Starsky now was like two pieces of the same material ripped apart and hastily stitched back together again. They were still who they'd always been, but now the unity was broken, held together only by…by what?

Hutch reluctantly allowed the answer to drift up to the surface of his mind. As the meaning became clear, the pain of the revelation cut deep into his heart. Both men had been drawn to police work for different reasons. Starsky had wanted to follow in his father's footsteps, to achieve what Michael hadn't lived long enough to accomplish on his own. Hutch had wanted to do something where he could champion for the underdog, those who were poor and had no voice when it came to securing equal rights. The same people his family and their well-to-do acquaintances had nonchalantly dismissed as inconsequential concerns.

But aside from those differences, he and Starsky always had one goal—to be the best. Not in terms of what the department thought about them, but what they thought about themselves. Out of that singular commitment came the foundation of caring…and love. Hutch loved Starsky, and he loved Hutch. So much so that Starsky would rather leave the force than expect Hutch to stay by his side knowing he'd never be the same again.

_That's why you were scared of losing me, wasn't it? Because you thought you couldn't hold up your end of the partnership…_

Of course, there could be other answers, but Hutch knew this was the right one.

_Could I love you that much, too, Starsk? Been willing to make that same sacrifice?_

One tear formed and then fell. Another quickly followed until both cheeks were soaked. Hutch tightly closed his eyelids and, unwillingly, let the ache take over.

.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

Hope you enjoy!

.

**Chapter 13**

**.**

Hutch stepped off the hospital elevator with Kent in tow. They walked through the double doors of the ICU and headed to Bree's room. Just as they got inside the doorway, Hutch drew back, stunned at the gathering of various medical personnel around Bree's bed. Panic hit, but when Hutch caught a glimpse of Starsky's face through the crowd, all fears immediately vanished. Starsky was smiling. Big time.

"Bree? Breanna? Look at me."

Hutch recognized Rachel's voice, but until he wedged into a thin opening between two nurses, he didn't realize she'd been sitting right next to Bree's bedside.

"There! You see, Doctor? She's trying to move her lips!"

Finally able to get a good view, Hutch looked into his lover's face. His heart nearly leapt ten stories when he saw that familiar pair of brown eyes peeking out from under heavy lids. Leaving his spot at the foot of the bed, Hutch hurried around the crowd to get closer to the front. He wedged back in through the human circle and stood alongside Starsky. After the two made eye contact, Hutch leaned over Rachel and excitedly assessed Bree's condition.

Her face certainly had more color, enough that the darkened bruises and marks weren't so prominent anymore. Bree's eyes looked a little glassy, but they'd hop from face to face, linger for a moment, and move on.

Thrilled at what he was witnessing, Hutch leaned in closer. "Bree? It's me…Hutch. Can you give me a smile?"

He watched breathlessly as Bree focused on him, and pursed her lips together in a tiny line.

"Oh, my baby girl," Rachel cooed. She turned to the side. "Is she out of the coma, Doctor Ames?"

The older man unclasped his hands and placed what looked like a penlight inside the front pocket of his lab coat. Ames sighed contentedly, laugh lines deepening around his eyes and mouth.

"I'd say the answer to that question is a definite 'yes,' Mrs. Starsky. Bree's responses to you and David, along with Ken just now, clearly indicate a conscious attempt to communicate."

"Are you're saying she's gonna be alright?" Starsky meekly asked.

Hutch looked over at Starsky. The big smile he'd seen earlier had diminished a level or two, but his partner's tense body language spoke volumes about the true nature behind his seemingly calm behavior.

Ames let out a quieter sigh and peered at Bree. "I think it's a little early to predict any kind of firm prognosis. Of course, anything she does that compares with normal activity will be an encouragement, but right now I'm not sure if we'll still have to contend with any brain damage or not."

The doctor's assessment instantly deflated much of Hutch's enthusiasm. As the majority of spectators quietly headed out of the room, Hutch felt a new string of fears wrap around his heart. Maybe his Sleeping Beauty wouldn't be the same after waking up. The thought of Bree permanently injured wasn't something he'd even begun to consider. Seeking some assurance, he settled on his lover's face again. The magic of seeing Bree's eyes open helped to chase many of his worries away.

"Is there anything we can do?" Hutch asked, placing his hand on one of Bree's. Her soft skin felt cool, but Bree didn't seem to notice the gesture.

"Right now, keep talking to her, encourage her to do anything that's within her abilities. That may not be much, but the more she can be prompted to participate, the quicker her brain may repair itself," Ames said.

"You don't have to worry about that," Rachel remarked. "We'll do everything we can."

Ames smiled even wider. "Then I'll leave you to your work. I'll be back sometime this afternoon and see how she's doing." He grabbed a folder off the table stand. "If there's any significant change, just call one of the nurses. They'll know how to get a hold of me."

"Thank you, Doctor," Rachel and Starsky said in unison.

Ames left the room, followed by the last pair of medical students. Suddenly realizing he'd forgotten Kent was still there, Hutch quickly caught his attention.

"Finally got some good news, huh, Jeff?"

Kent grinned and stepped closer to the bed. "I'm sure seeing your daughter awake has made your day, Mrs. Starsky."

Rachel took her daughter's hand as if unable to break their connection and looked up at Kent. "Oh goodness, yes! When we got here this morning, the nurses said that she'd just opened her eyes a few minutes before. For a second, I think she was even trying to say my name, wasn't she David?"

"Yeah, Mom. I think she was."

Starsky didn't sound very excited, but he put a supportive hand on Rachel's shoulder.

Hutch thought about the message that Huggy had gotten the night before, and wondered if Starsky knew about it yet.

Before he could think of an inconspicuous way to ask, mischievous blue eyes peered out from under dark curls.

"Are you two gonna be here for a while?" Starsky asked, unintentionally beating Hutch to the punch.

Kent didn't answer. Instead, he shyly shifted his feet as if he were deferring the decision to Hutch. Under any other circumstances, there wouldn't have been a problem saying 'yes.' But this wasn't some casual question from Starsky. Hutch could read him like the Sunday comics and there wasn't any way in hell he was going to let the curly knucklehead out of his sight.

"Well, actually…" Hutch caught himself glancing at Bree, wishing he could stay. "We were, uh…going to go check out that lead _Mr. Brown_ called in. Remember?"

"Mister Brown?"

Hutch ignored Jeff's question, keeping his eyes on Starsky. The smirk on his partner's face was exactly what he expected.

Now it was Starsky's turn to take a look at his sister. Bree was still awake, although just barely. As if knowing who to turn to, she tilted her head slightly towards her brother. Standing calmly, Starsky appeared unemotional, yet the uncertainty burning in his eyes only made Hutch more apprehensive. Whatever was in that message from Huggy sure must have been a whopper.

"Does that mean you're all leaving?" Rachel sat up straighter in her chair and nervously eyed each of them. The concern in her voice was troubling to hear, but Hutch kept silent, waiting for Starsky to answer first.

"Yeah, Mom," he said at last. "Duty calls."

Rachel frowned worriedly. She raised a hand to her shoulder and laid it on top of Starsky's. "I'm sure if she could, Breanna would say she understands. But you be careful, David, you hear?" Patting her son's hand, she switched to Hutch. "And you, too, Kenneth, and…oh, dear, is it Jake?"

"It's Jeff, Ma'am. But don't worry about us."

Starsky sneered briefly before he leaned over to kiss Rachel on the cheek. Moving closer to Bree, he carefully slipped a finger under a loose strand of hair and slid it off her forehead. "You get better, okay, sis?"

Whether she understood the remark, Hutch couldn't tell. He approached the bedside and lowering his head, quietly spoke in her ear. "That goes for me, too."

Once all three men had left Bree's room and gone out in the hall, it was time to dispose of pretenses.

"So," Hutch began, addressing Starsky, "you got something you'd like to share?" The look on his partner's face slowly morphed into a bad show of ignorance, but Hutch wasn't buying it. "C'mon, Starsk," he prompted, "we're the good guys, remember?"

"Don't know what you're talkin' about," Starsky grumbled, choosing to play stubborn. "The way you're acting, I'd say _you're_ the one who's got news he ain't sharing."

Feeling an impasse fast approaching, Hutch decided to play his ace. "I thought we were done working solo," he said.

The intense glare in Starsky's eyes sliced through Hutch. Anger, pain, and hurt fired spontaneously from the baby blues, each emotion not hard to interpret. Starsky's heated reaction wasn't unexpected. No doubt thoughts about the confrontation with Frank Suko a few months ago were racing through his mind.

Starsky had acted impulsively on an anonymous tip—a decision that ended with the death of Andy Simmons, and Starsky charged with his murder. Even though he'd been looking for the man who killed his partner, Trevor Woods, Starsky fell right into Suko's hands. His bad decision to go solo had only added to the mound of avoidable circumstances involved with the whole case.

And now Hutch feared that same reckless behavior emerging once again.

"Excuse me," Jeff uttered, breaking the silence. "I'll go wait in the car."

As the young detective turned to leave, Hutch felt torn between duty and friendship.

"Hey, kid," Starsky cut in.

Kent stopped and turned. He looked bored but was probably feeling more like a third wheel.

"Hutch and I are gonna join you." Apparently, Starsky sensed the same thing.

A few minutes later, they'd all gathered by Kent's Dodge in the parking lot. No one had said anything on the way down, and Hutch had no idea how much of a fight still loomed between him and Starsky. Heaven only knew what it would take to knock some sense in his partner's head, but he'd be damned if he let the guy take off on his own.

"For what it's worth," Starsky said to Jeff, "I think you're a good cop. Me and him go back a ways," he added, nodding at Hutch, "but that don't make us experts, and it doesn't excuse any rude behavior."

A thin grin appeared on Jeff's face. "I don't lose too much sleep over gettin' ignored. But like you said, Starsky, I'm a good cop. This 'Mr. Brown,' he's Huggy, right?"

Hutch had to nod in agreement, and his eyes shifted to Starsky.

"Now, I don't know why you two are butting heads," Jeff continued, "but if you really want to find the asshole responsible, then why all the secrets?"

Starsky stared at Hutch, not in an accusatory manner, but that wasn't important. Hutch knew he shared some responsibility. The real question was, did Starsky ever intend on admitting that by being up front himself?

"Okay," Starsky huffed. "You wanna know what I know?"

If Hutch looked shocked, he sure had a reason to. Half of him wanted to yell, "Hell, yes!" and the other part couldn't understand why Starsky hadn't opened up sooner. Settling for somewhere in between, Hutch answered coolly, "Yes, Starsky, I think we'd all stand to benefit."

Starsky brushed off the sarcastic response and dug his hands deep into his jacket pockets. "Huggy said he got an anonymous call last night. Whoever it was told him he'd be getting a message soon, and to make sure I got it."

Hutch recalled the note in Huggy's hand. "Yeah," he said. "You'd just left The Pits last night when Huggy came looking for you."

"So you know what it said?" Starsky asked, sounding concerned.

"No, Starsk," Hutch replied, feeling all but involved. "Huggy didn't share."

A look of quasi relief appeared on Starsky's face, making Hutch wonder just how bad the information was. He was already suspecting that there were parts of that message he'd never find out about.

"Well, don't keep us in suspense—what did it say?" Jeff chimed in.

Hutch's over-tightened nerves felt a small breath of reprieve. Maybe this new guy could help him keep Starsky on a short leash.

"Fine," Starsky said brusquely, digging in his pocket. He pulled out a folded page torn out of a notebook. It didn't look like the same note Huggy had last night, but Hutch eyed it with interest as Starsky unfolded the piece of paper. "Here," he said, handing it over.

Hutch took the note and held it where he and Jeff could see. An address of "1624 W Dell" was written in Starsky's lopsided script along with the name "Freddy."

"Okay," Hutch said, "I give. What's this got to do with what you know and we don't?"

Starsky smirked before answering. "That's the message Huggy had for me. He called last night right after you did. Apparently _Freddy_ has some info he'd like to share."

"About this case?" Hutch asked.

Starsky nodded. "Huggy said the guy claimed he knew who's been attacking women lately. Talked about that murder you two handled on Wilshire the other day…he also specifically mentioned Bree."

Hutch felt himself stiffen. He'd had no idea this was the information Starsky had been keeping to himself, and no doubt would have acted on _all by_ _himself_ if not for this latest intervention. Handing the note back to Starsky, Hutch struggled to remain calm.

"So what are you going to do?" he asked.

His question seemed to throw Starsky for a loss. Looking flabbergasted, he said, "I… I'm letting you in on what I know."

Hutch crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Well that's really nice of you, Starsky." Eying Jeff, Hutch said, "Make sure you note that in the report, okay? A few sentences on a supplement will do. And maybe when Starsky has something else he's willing to share, we'll include that, too."

The expression on Starsky's face made Hutch wish he had a camera. If he hadn't been so mad right then, he might have enjoyed a good laugh. At least Starsky looked like he'd finally caught on.

"Okay, Hutchinson…you win."

"What's that, detective?"

Starsky scrunched his eyebrows together. "You gonna make me spell it out? I got the message."

"No, I don't think so, Starsk. Why don't you tell me, and him?" Hutch demanded, nodding at Jeff.

Grinding a tennis shoe into the pavement, Starsky looked uncomfortable. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't share my toys with you," he grumbled. "Wasn't aware I had two mothers."

"I don't think you'd care if you had a dozen mothers—"

"Now look, Hutch—"

"No! You look, Starsky," Hutch fired back, shaking his index finger. "Just a few minutes ago you were chomping at the bit wanting to go check out that lead…by yourself! You didn't give a damn about _sharing_. If you want to go off half-cocked, I can't stop you. And you know what? I'm not sure I really care anymore." Hutch reached down to open the passenger door on Jeff's car. "Just do me a favor," he added, "Don't screw this case up because you can't stop playing hero, okay?"

"Hey," Starsky called, but Hutch ignored him and climbed into the car.

After slamming the door shut, Hutch took some deep breaths. This whole investigation was just going to hell. It was bad enough that they didn't have any good leads, but when one finally did show up, _someone_ who should have known better was screwing it all up and risking the integrity of the whole case. Soft tapping on the glass outside interrupted Hutch's thoughts. Starsky stood there, motioning for Hutch to roll his window down.

"What?"

"Roll your window down," Starsky said.

Letting out a loud sigh, Hutch grudgingly complied. "What?" he asked angrily.

"Look, I understand. Okay?"

"Yeah, whatever."

Starsky sighed and relaxed his stance. "Do I gotta kiss you and make up right here? In front of Jeff? He already thinks we're a couple of lunatics."

"This isn't a joke, Starsky."

"No, it isn't. But you and I both know that someone out there wants my attention, and we can't afford not to give it to him."

.

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

Thanks everyone!

.

**Chapter 14**

**.**

Starsky walked into the Sunset Pawn Shop on Dell Avenue with Hutch right behind him. Jeff was parked just a half block away. He had strict instructions to call for back up if they didn't return in five minutes. Both men strolled casually toward the front counter, but not before passing aisles full of various tools, electronics, and other whatnots. Off to the right, a young couple was checking out some record players on a shelf, while the guy manning the cash register was thumbing through a hot rod magazine.

After a quick glance over his shoulder at Hutch, Starsky stepped up to the counter and gave the employee a thorough look. He didn't really fit the description of a 'Freddy.' Standing about 5'7", he appeared to be in his mid twenties, with long, dirty-blond hair pulled back in a pony tail. His hollowed cheeks and narrow face matched the slim build, largely hidden by a long sleeved flannel shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans. Starsky figured he wouldn't have any trouble wiping the counter with the guy if he had to.

"Can I help you?" Ponytail asked.

Starsky leaned forward and placed a hand on the wooden surface. "Does a 'Freddy' work here?"

"Who's asking?"

"You always answer a question with a question?" Starsky fired back.

The employee chuckled. "I could ask you the same thing," he said.

Starsky glanced at Hutch. His partner had to be thinking the same thing—_wise ass_. Keeping his cool, Starsky smiled politely. "We got something we think Fred would be interested in, if that would be you."

"Don't know any 'Fred.' Now, if there's nothing else, I'm kinda busy here…"

Holding the smile on his face, Starsky turned to Hutch. In a fraction of a second, Hutch reached over the counter and grabbed the employee's ponytail. As his head hit the counter, the guy yelped out in pain.

"Now look, you dirt bag," Hutch growled in his ear. "You've got two choices. Either I start using your head to mop up the floor, or you tell us where to find Freddy."

"Alright! Alright!" he cried. "I'm Freddy, okay?"

The young couple who had been shopping now stared at Starsky and Hutch like two wide-eyed squirrels. Starsky tapped Hutch's shoulder and nodded at their audience. With his free hand, Hutch took out his wallet and flashed his badge at them. "Store's closed," he said firmly. "Come back tomorrow."

After the two made a hasty exit, Hutch stuck his wallet back in his pants and lifted Freddy's head off the counter.

"Shit! You guys are cops?"

"I hear you got a message for me," Starsky said.

"Yeah, that so?"

Hutch thumped the kid's head back down on the counter.

"Ow!" Freddy yelled.

Starsky leaned in closer, getting face to face with the man.

"This ain't playschool, pizza breath. You either start spillin', or we're gonna haul your scrawny ass downtown and charge you with first degree murder, kidnapping—"

"What? I didn't do nothin', I swear!" he cried as Hutch twisted the ponytail tighter. "Ow! Fuck, man! Listen to me, will ya?"

Starsky looked at his partner with a smirk and Hutch let go of the guy's hair.

"Start talkin'," Starsky urged.

Freddy straightened up. He gently ran a hand along the side of his head, apparently nursing a sore spot. "Look, here's all I know," he said, staring at Starsky. "Some guy comes in here the other day, flashing hundred dollar bills in front of my face like it was Christmas. Told me he needed a favor."

"You ever seen this Santa Claus before?" Hutch asked.

"Huh? Oh, no. I never seen him before."

"What'd he look like?"

Freddy shrugged his shoulders at Starsky's question. "I don't know. He looked like a regular guy—ow!"

Hutch pulled back his hand after slapping Freddy's head. "Answer my partner's question! Was he tall, fat, bald?"

"Tall, I guess. Kinda big."

"Big? How?"

"Big, you know." Freddy flexed his arms by his sides. "Like he had some muscle. Come to think of it, guy didn't have much of a neck."

"He have black hair, slicked back?" Starsky swallowed quickly to keep his voice from cracking.

"Yeah. He wasn't exactly dressed in rags, either. Had on some pretty expensive threads."

"So what's the favor he wanted?" Hutch cut in.

"Gave me this envelope," Freddy said, pulling one out from under the register. "Told me some punk would be coming by to pick it up." Starsky eyed the letter with his name written on it as Freddy handed it to Hutch. "Guess you're Starsky."

A pathetic look appeared on Hutch's face as he grabbed the envelope. "_I'm_ Hutch," he said hotly, "_he's_ Starsky." Holding on to the letter, Hutch asked Freddy, "Can you identify this guy if you saw him again?"

"Pretty sure…am I gonna have to? I mean, this is my uncle's shop. He doesn't like cops, and he's in Florida right now…family business—"

"Just don't disappear," Starsky warned him. "Trust me, you don't want us comin' after you."

Leaving Freddy standing dumbstruck behind the register, Starsky stormed after Hutch as he headed out the front door. His partner didn't stop until they got back to the Dodge. Hutch motioned for Jeff to step out of the car and join them.

"You gonna let me read my letter?" Starsky asked, nodding at the document.

"Only on one condition…that you don't keep us in the dark."

Starsky stared at Hutch, looking for some crack to reveal itself in the blond's unwavering attitude. But the icy blue gaze that met his didn't show any sign of weakening.

"Deal," Starsky agreed.

Before Hutch had a chance to change his mind, Starsky snatched the letter from his hand and tore it open. Inside was a small page out of a notepad folded in half. Taking a deep breath, Starsky slipped it out and began to read.

.

_"Are we having fun yet, cop? Since you can't figure out anything on your own, I'm making this easy for you. I did it you prick. That stupid bitch sister of yours, she fucked me so I fucked her. I really wanted to kill her, like that other slut at the clinic. That's my specialty, you know. But I got your attention, didn't I? See, unlike you, I'M GOOD at what I do! So, come get me you shit. Let's settle this once and for all. 555-2339."_

_._

Starsky folded the note back up. He just wanted to tear it into little pieces, like the author. But he couldn't—at least not with Hutch standing right there. Reluctantly, Starsky slapped the piece of paper against Hutch's stomach and walked to the trunk of the car, leaving his partner and Jeff to read the note themselves.

"That's one sick dude," Starsky heard Jeff mutter a few moments later.

"Yeah," Hutch agreed, "You should see him in person." He went over to join Starsky. "I don't like this, partner. He's being way too cocky, like he's got nothing to lose."

Starsky leaned back on the trunk. He crossed his arms and stared down the street, wishing he could fly off to another time and place. Somewhere nice and peaceful; where people got to live their lives without lunatics running around wreaking havoc and killing innocent victims. Maybe a place like that didn't exist, except at Disney World, but he really needed a yearly park pass right now. A twinge of chest pain quickly wiped those thoughts away. Starsky looked into Hutch's worried eyes, and saw his own fear mirrored in them.

"I dunno, Hutch. He's not going to stop until he's six foot under. An' maybe that's what he wants…to go down and take me with him."

"Well, that sure as hell ain't gonna happen, at least not while I'm breathing."

Starsky wanted to smile at Hutch's concern, but the gravity of his situation wouldn't let him.

"So, what's the plan?"

Starsky had to force those words out. Every fiber of his being was telling him to take off and settle this feud on his own. Hutch, Bree, even Jeff—they weren't a part of this, only innocent bystanders in the path of a runaway train.

"Suko wants to meet you, alone. We'll just make sure things don't go according to his plan."

Starsky had to smirk. "You really think he's dumb enough to think I'd go by myself?"

"I don't know what that asshole thinks, Starsky! Maybe he wants both of us, maybe he just gets off on hurting you and anybody else he can find." Hutch huffed loudly and shook his head. "But here's what I _do_ know, partner," he said, in a softer voice. "He's not getting away this time. Suko either comes out of this in handcuffs or in a hearse, and frankly I wouldn't give a damn which way that happens."

Starsky glanced at Jeff. The young detective's expression hadn't changed since getting out of the car. Starsky could almost read him as well as he could Hutch—whatever the veterans decided, he'd go along with it.

"Got your running shoes on?" Starsky asked Jeff.

"Huh?"

"Something tells me Suko ain't far from that number," Starsky said, nodding at the note in Jeff's hand. "When I call, I bet he's gonna give me all of five minutes to get there." Turning to Hutch, he added, "Guess that goes for you, too."

Hutch grinned. "We should get a wire put on you, then go get another car."

"No."

Hutch suddenly froze. "No?"

"C'mon, Hutch. Think! I'd bet my pension Freddy in there's already dropped a dime to Suko. Clock's tickin'."

Looking a bit sheepish, Hutch scanned up and down the block. "Okay, but we need a second car and _then_ a phone."

"You always could read my mind," Starsky quipped.

.

Ten minutes later, they'd arrived back in the parking lot at Memorial Hospital. Starsky hopped out of the Dodge and got into the Torino, but not without glancing up at the building to the floor where Bree's room was located. He wished there was time to go see her, to explain that whatever was bound to happen, that he'd done it for her sake. Peering at Hutch sitting beside Jeff in the car, Starsky winked.

Driving out of the lot, he headed for a payphone right across the street at a convenience store. Starsky got out of his car and pulled the note from the pawn shop out of his pocket. He stepped into the booth and dropped a dime into the coin slot. Hutch and Jeff had gotten out of the Dodge and were standing just a few feet away. Hearing the dial tone, Starsky carefully dialed each number and waited. Finally, someone answered the phone.

"_This Starsky?"_ a man asked.

A shiver ran down Starsky's spine. No matter how much time passed, he'd never forget that voice.

"Suko?"

"_Yeah, you prick, it's me. What took ya so long?"_

"Traffic was a bitch."

"_That so? That pretty partner of yours must have fast hands, puttin' on that wire. Did he touch you nice and special, you know, like I used to do?"_

Starsky squeezed the receiver, wanting to break it in pieces as much as he wanted to Frank Suko.

"I don't gotta wire, and this _isn't_ what you and I need to talk about," Starsky growled in a low voice, not wanting his audience to hear.

"_My, my, impatient little bastard, aren't cha? Okay, Starsky. If you're in a hurry to die, I won't hold you up. Off the end of Fulton, by the pier, there's a yellow building. Come in through the back door, alone. If you're thinkin' about bringing company, __**don't**__. You've got ten minutes, asshole. And you'd better pray there isn't any holdups…or I'm gonna find me another pretty bitch to mess up."_

Starsky wracked his mind for another question to ask, but it was too late. Suko had already hung up. Jamming the phone back in the holder, Starsky let out a frustrated huff.

"What'd he say?" Hutch asked, coming in closer.

"He wants to meet." Starsky straightened and stepped out of the booth. He locked eyes with Hutch, knowing what he was going to ask, hoping somehow, that he wouldn't.

"Alone, right?"

Starsky kept staring at his partner. He could tell Hutch a different location…could, but lying wasn't an option anymore.

"Fulton street, down by the pier. A yellow building."

Hutch dipped his head, apparently trying to picture the area in his mind.

"That's real close to Morgan's Welding." Hutch looked back up. "How long?"

He didn't need to look at his watch. Starsky could feel every second as it ticked away. "Nine minutes, and counting," he said.

"Damn," Hutch said softly. He'd gone from looking worried to almost complete despair. Starsky stole a glance at Jeff. He looked about the same, but with a twinge more anxiousness showing. "You can't go in there without backup—"

"Hutch, Suko said—"

"That's not what I meant," Hutch said, his voice on edge. "You need a gun."

Hutch's admission surprised Starsky. What he didn't know was that Starsky had one of his own.

"I'm good," he answered, hoping Hutch would understand.

"Starsky…" Hutch's face twisted in confusion. "How did you…where did you…"

"Look," Starsky interrupted, "we don't got time for this." Starsky avoided Hutch's gaze and looked at his feet. Hutch probably had him all figured out. After getting Huggy's message, Starsky was just going to take the law in his own hands. Fuck Hutch, fuck the law, fuck everything.

"He's right," Jeff broke in. Eying Hutch, he said, "There's got to be some way for us to get in that building, too. I mean, unless this Suko guy has got half the city on his payroll, I don't see how he can concentrate on his personal vendetta _and_ watch out for us, too."

Starsky locked eyes with Hutch.

_Kid's got a point…we can sort this all out later_.

Hutch stared at him, then tossed an arm up in the air. "Fine," he mumbled, sounding very frustrated. "I just hope you know what you're doing, Starsky, 'cause I'm not in the mood to have to explain to Rachel, or Bree, what the hell happened if this doesn't all go according to your plan."

"You just watch my back like you always have…and you won't have to."

"Yeah, right...famous last words, Starsk."

.

TBC


	15. Chapter 15

Hope you enjoy!

.

**Chapter 15**

**.**

Starsky pulled the Torino up along the curb on Fulton Street and parked behind an early-70's Chevy pickup. This part of the pier district differed from the more central warehouse borough; both open and closed shops dotted the area. Depending on the time of day, business here could be rather brisk, or like now, plainly sluggish with only a few cars and pedestrians milling about. Stepping out of the Ford, Starsky studied the two-story yellow building across the street. To his surprise, the auto parts store looked like it was open.

If there wasn't enough alarm bells going off in his head, this certainly added a few more. Suko could just be pulling him into another cat and mouse game. The man was a sadist, and Starsky had no doubt that when the mobster died, he'd go straight to hell and try to fuck Satan. However, until Suko got handed his one-way ticket, Starsky would have to play by the maniac's rules.

Covertly running a hand behind his back to check the gun hidden in his waistband, Starsky walked across the street and headed to the rear entrance of the store. Reaching the back door, he noticed a sign that said "Employees Only." He gave it only a moment's consideration, then turned the knob and quietly eased himself inside. The spacious store room had several aisles of metal shelves, all lined with hundreds of small boxes. Starsky slowly checked down each aisle, looking for either a human being, or something to lead him to another part of the store. The sound of shuffling a few feet away caused Starsky's heart to skip a beat.

"_Quién son usted?_"

A middle-aged man peeked out from behind one of the shelves. Dressed in blue jeans and an old flannel shirt, the Mexican appeared to be an employee. Starsky stumbled over his limited knowledge of Spanish, but couldn't come up with anything except "_Esta Ramon aqui?_" Opting for the sure bet, Starsky said, "I don't understand…"

The man smiled uneasily. "I think you are looking for the _gringo_…he is upstairs."

He pointed across the room to a set of stairs against a wall. Starsky turned to thank him, but the worker had disappeared. Swallowing hard, Starsky checked the placement of his gun once more and started for the stairwell.

.

At the hospital, Rachel finished reading the end of a chapter in her paperback. She was ready to turn the page when movement from the bed caught the corner of her eye. Bree's eyes were wide open, her face twisting in shock and confusion. Rachel dropped her book with a gasp and lunged forward, pressing her body closer to the bedside. Bree's lips were moving, mouthing something Rachel couldn't make out.

"What, _liebchen_? Are you hurting? Do you want me to call the doctor?"

Bree shook her head, her eyes begging for understanding. Rachel strained to hear the faint sounds.

"…dah…vid…"

Rachel repeated the syllables, slowly at first, then faster. "David?" she guessed at last. "Are you asking about David?"

Bree nodded emphatically. Her lips moved again, obviously wanting to say more.

"..eh..el…"

"I can't…I don't understand." Rachel grabbed Bree's hand. She was trying so hard to force the words past her lips. Placing her hand on Bree's head, Rachel murmured, "Calm down, sweetie. Take your time. Do you want to see David? He's not here, but I—"

"Aargh!" Bree huffed loudly. Rachel felt her grip tighten. "Dah-vid…" Bree tried again, "…hey..alp…"

"Help?"

Bree closed her mouth and nodded excitedly.

"Why does David need help?" Rachel asked, more to herself than Bree. The look on her daughter's face churned with worry. Not knowing exactly what to say, Rachel got up from her chair and immediately went to the police officer stationed outside in the hall.

.

Starsky cringed at each step. The old staircase had definitely seen better days and the worn planks under his feet creaked pathetically the closer he got to the second floor. Reaching the landing, Starsky inspected what he could see of the upstairs room. Columns of cardboard boxes were stacked all around, some with a pile of tire rims nearby, others with a long forgotten chair or car door panel propped up against the side. The air felt warm and stuffy. The few bulbs overhead gave off just enough light to illuminate the open spaces, but the vast majority of the floor remained hidden in darkness because of the lack of windows.

Starsky took a few steps forward and stopped.

"Suko?" he called firmly.

"I'm here."

The voice came out of a dark cavity to his left. Starsky turned that way while instinctively checking for the nearest spot of cover. Nothing was close by that could stop a bullet, but one area just a few feet away at least promised the cover of darkness. Bracing himself, Starsky held his ground. Somehow, he sensed Suko wanted to talk first. Flying bullets, no doubt, would come later.

Louder sounds of rustling emerged from Suko's hiding spot. Slowly, the silhouette of a head, followed by an upper torso, appeared. Starsky fought hard to hold the queasiness in his stomach down as the man he vehemently hated stepped out and stood under the glow of an overhead light.

"You must really care about that bitch," Suko began, the smug smile on his face reaching from ear to ear. "Coming here to face me, all by _yourself_. Must make you the world's best brother." Suko inched a little closer. "How much do you really know about that whore; huh, Davey boy? You know she's got a little dimple right here?" He pointed to his right nipple, and sensually began rubbing the area with the palm of his hand. "And that pussy of hers…it's a wonder it's so nice and tight given what—"

"Shut the fuck up!" Starsky yelled, wanting to strangle the pervert. "You wanted me, so here I am!"

Suko's grin faded, yet that didn't stop him from chuckling. "Like I've always said, you're just full of piss, aren't ya?"

With his eyes burning intensely, Suko stepped forward. Starsky felt his anger lift, replaced with a feeling of guarded apprehension. There was always a purpose in what Suko did. It was like watching a King Cobra rise from the ground, head poised and ready to strike its prey with a dose of deadly venom.

Once he got about ten feet away, Suko stopped. He stared at Starsky with a look that was half sympathetic, half disgust.

"You know, this is about honor," Suko explained. "In my family, we have respect, especially a son to a father. And a son honors his murdered father by taking care of those responsible."

"I didn't kill your father, and neither did my Pop!"

"He did everything but put the gun to his head and pull the trigger!" Suko's voice tore through the stale air. "But that was just like him…a fuckin' coward, too weak to do the dirty work himself. He hid behind a stinkin' badge." Suko dipped his head and spat on the ground. "Like father, like son, huh, Starsky?"

"You've got it all wrong," Starsky fired back. "Your father wanted to take over Joe Durniak's operation. _He_ was the one hiding in the background, waiting for other people to do his dirty work. But he screwed up, didn't he? Got a little careless."

"My father didn't screw up. Your old man used being a cop to force him into going against the Family. Then that piece of shit went and told filthy lies to Joe." Suko pointed his index finger at Starsky and shook it wildly. "Your father didn't deserve to die so quick. He had the blood of three innocent men on his hands!"

"There would've been three times that many if your father's plans had gone through," growled Starsky. "My Pop did the only thing he could. He knew there'd be bloodshed, but he didn't start the war, he only tried to end it before—"

"Fuck you!"

Before Starsky could react, Suko reached under his jacket and pulled out a revolver. Starsky's only chance was to leap across the floor to cover, but it was too late. He stood frozen, waiting for the bright flash to appear from the barrel of Suko's gun. The tiny hole remained black.

"You and I, we're not that different," Suko said with a grin, still not done playing his game.

"We're not even from the same planet, Suko. You kill and abuse people as if they were nothing. My sister—"

"That bitch is a fuckin' freak! That crap she told Vinetti about his dead sister…it screwed with his head, made him go nuts and turn against his own. No, your whole family sucks." Suko thumbed back the hammer on his revolver. The metal clicking echoed ominously through the room. "Time for you to say your goodbyes, cop."

"You'll be signing your own death warrant, Suko. You kill me, someone else will only take my place."

The mobster snorted. "You dumb fuck, you think I'm worried about that? I've got the big 'C'...cancer. Found out when I got sent to the pen." A sad, yet disturbing smile appeared on Suko's face. "Thanks to you, that trip gave me the perfect way to get a little revenge against a few people who thought they could screw me. I gotta admit, sometimes I don't know who's dumber, those stupid feds running around in 3-piece suits or you bubblegum-chewing flatfoots."

"So what are you waiting for?" snapped Starsky. Tempting his luck, he drew both hands behind him and clasped them together; all the while feeling the hard butt of the automatic underneath his shirt. He hoped Suko would interpret the chest puffing as an act of bravado.

"I got all the time I need, cop, especially where you're concerned."

Starsky stopped lifting his shirt tail off of the gun. Something in the tone of Suko's voice made his skin crawl.

"Whatd'ya mean?"

Suko lowered his revolver. Producing a wide smirk, he said, "That money I took from Rothman…sure buys a lot of _favors_. And you know what they say…you can't take it with you when you go."

An invisible tentacle snaked around Starsky's throat and squeezed. Suddenly, the meaning of Suko's statement became ominously clear. He could be squashed, like a bug, yet hundreds of creepy-crawlies would be released; each coming back to pay a visit in the future.

"_Why?"_

Starsky heard the sincerity in his voice, and for once, it sickened him. Perhaps for the first time, he was fresh out of ammo needed to win this battle.

"You catch on fast," Suko teased. "It's simple; people like you don't deserve to die easy." His head dipped as he studied his gun, seeming to admire the weapon. "How much you wanna bet I could pump six bullets in you and you'd still survive?"

Suko raised his head and slowly pointed the gun at Starsky again. Instinct was telling the cop to flee, but the King Cobra had him hypnotized.

Running his eyes up and down Starsky's chest, Suko said seductively, "I've seen those scars, you know. It's a shame, too, how they messed up that beautiful body…"

"Shut up!"

Starsky's gaze dropped to the ground, momentarily ashamed. Shaking that off, he stared back at Suko. He was close to the edge now, very close. The time had come. This game had to stop. Purposely and strategically, he glided his left hand under his shirt, feeling the cold metal of the gun as he curled his fingers around the grip. Taking his last breath, he flexed his arm and swung it forward—

"Drop the gun, Suko!"

Hutch's voice shattered the all or nothing moment. Starsky barely had time to curse when the first shot cracked through the room. The next second, he was diving to the floor as burst after burst of gunfire echoed around him.

Hearing a sickening thud and groan off to his side, Starsky popped his head up. Hutch had his gun drawn out in front while he cautiously advanced on the prone lump of Suko lying just a few feet ahead.

"Don't move!" Hutch ordered, keeping the Magnum trained on the wounded man.

Unbelievably, Suko started to chuckle. Starsky aimed his gun aimed at him, too, the words of his old firearms instructor running through his mind; "_They ain't down for good unless they're good and dead._" Now wasn't the time to relax.

Suko was bleeding heavily from his shoulder, yet despite Hutch's repeated warnings, he slowly pushed himself up into a seated position. Ignoring the gun on the floor beside him, Suko took his free hand and placed it on his injured shoulder.

"I said, you'd better freeze, asshole!"

Suko looked up from tending his wound. "And I say, why don't you kiss my ass?"

Hutch inched forward.

"No, Hutch!" Starsky yelled, and turned to Suko. "Who did you pay off for those _favors_?"

The question only provoked an even louder snicker from Suko. "That, my friend, is something you'll _never_ know."

Something inside of Starsky snapped. He got up from the floor and pointed his gun at Suko's head. "I'm done with being patient," Starsky growled. "You tell me right now, or so help me, I'll—"

"Or you'll what?" jeered Suko, "Shoot me? Go ahead, you mother fucker. But remember, my back ain't turned, you prick!"

Starsky tightened his grip on the gun. He didn't have to look at Hutch to know he was pressing closer, persuading Starsky to think about what he was doing.

_And what was he doing?_

Memories unexpectedly flooded in, from the last moments Starsky had spent with Trevor Woods. His former partner had asked about George Prudholm, and after Starsky finished recounting the story, Trevor posed an interesting question...

"_Do you ever wonder what would've happened if you'd shot him in the first place?"_

"_What'd you just say?" Starsky asked._

"_I'm saying when a monster like that causes you to lose self control, and you're given a choice, what would you do?"_

"_We're not out here to act as vigilantes. You know that."_

"_I don't want to hear the party line, David. We've both worked in this profession long enough to know we can't sit here and honestly say there's never been anyone we haven't hated enough to kill. What about the guy that ordered the hit on you?"_

"_What about him! He's rotting in jail, hopefully with a roommate named 'Bubba' and the only thing to look forward to every day is going to the bathroom by himself. That's certainly worse than just being dead."_

"_Okay, I hear you. But tell me," Trevor persisted, "Under different circumstances, with just you and a partner you'd trust your life to, would you do it?"_

"_That's not a fair question," Starsky grumbled. "I can't answer that. Right now, I could say 'yes,' but with a gun in my hand and some unarmed bastard in front of me…just where are you goin' with all of this?"_

"_What I'm getting at is how much do you trust your partner? If you wanted to kill someone, and your partner would cover for you, could you take someone's life?"_

Starsky looked down the barrel of his gun and stared at Frank Suko's disgusting face. There was no doubt what would happen if he pulled the trigger. Hutch would cover for him, swear it happened in self-defense, testify before a judge and jury that Suko had given them no choice. Even if the mobster's diagnosis was fatal, that didn't mean his date with the Grim Reaper couldn't be moved up.

Starsky's finger tightened on the trigger. Could he do this? Send this son-of-a-bitch to hell where he belonged? It would only take just a few more pounds of pressure…

"I knew you were a piece of shit," Suko taunted. "You ain't even got the balls to shoot me…after all I've done. The only dick you've got is that piece of metal in your hand. Just remember that, Starsky, when I see you in hell!"

In a flash, Suko lunged for his gun. The rest all happened in slow motion. Starsky could see the flash of gunpowder exploding out of the Beretta's barrel. He could hear the shots, one after the other, sounding like quiet, little thuds. He saw Suko's face grimace and his body stiffen. After what seemed like ages, the mobster's eyes rolled back and his body toppled to the floor, kicking up a small wave of dust. After that, deathly silence filled the room.

.

The next thing he knew, Starsky was standing next to Hutch outside on the street. Several patrol cars were parked nearby, along with a coroner's wagon and an ambulance. Uniformed officers strolled here and there, some holding plastic bags, others with either a clipboard or a camera in their hands. Suddenly, a large shadow appeared from behind. Starsky turned and saw Dobey there with Jeff Kent.

"Seems good news travels fast," the captain remarked. "I've gotten two messages from our friends at the federal building. They can't seem to believe Frank Suko was responsible for those attacks."

"Just proves that some people only hear what they want to hear," said Hutch. "We all done here, Capt?"

"Not so fast. IA's been banging on my door all afternoon. This is one big mess you've dumped on my head, and you're crazy if you think I'm going to clean it up!"

"With all due respect, Captain, I don't see the problem here," Hutch grumbled. "It was a justified shoot. Frank Suko tried to kill me—"

"You can stop right there, detective! You know damned well what the problem is! And just in case you haven't figured it out, the commissioner is all over my black ass demanding to know why I've got a _suspended_ detective out on the street involved in a fatal shooting!"

"Captain—"

"Don't start, Hutchinson! Now, here's what you two…wait…" Dobey turned and grabbed Kent, pulling him up front. "Here's what's going to happen, gentlemen. There's going to be a full report on my desk in one hour. It better be signed, in triplicate, by the detectives who were _working_ on this case. As for you, Starsky, be prepared to spend some quality time with Internal Affairs..."

Starsky leaned back against the Torino. All he wanted right then was a nice, soft bed, preferably next to Bree's, and a handful of pain meds. Suko's last threat was still running through his mind, and until he could see that Rachel and Bree were okay, Starsky couldn't rest. Unfortunately, the pain in his chest wasn't offering him any relief either.

"Did you hear me, Starsky?"

Starsky lifted his eyes, not sure when he'd stopped paying attention to Dobey. "Yeah, Capt, clear my social calendar, I heard you."

Dobey let out a frustrated huff. He slapped a big hand on Hutch's shoulder. "Drop him off at the hospital on your way to the precinct," Dobey said. "Oh, and that reminds me, your mother called the office a little while ago, Starsky. Your sister has been talking!"

.

TBC - Tomorrow I'll be posting the last chapter!


	16. Chapter 16

My apologies for being late posting this last chapter. There were some passages that needed a little more fine tuning and were very resistant to any change! Thanks for your patience!

.

**Chapter 16**

**.**

_One month later_

Hutch stepped off the elevator and headed down the hallway. He had a spring in his step today and even felt like whistling a little tune. If he were anywhere besides Memorial Hospital, Hutch would be belting out a country medley.

There wasn't a particular reason why he was feeling so good today. Lord knows, this dreary place had been a second home for longer than Hutch cared to remember. Up until two weeks ago, there had only been one patient to visit, Bree. Since she started speaking, Bree had surprised everyone by making small, but significant improvements almost every day. But her prognosis wasn't all rosy. Suko's attack had caused some neurological damage forcing her to be confined to a wheelchair, but Doctor Ames still believed she could eventually recover. His reassurance provided a small measure of hope, yet even that diminutive amount was frequently tempered by frustrating setbacks.

Today, though, Hutch wasn't thinking about a future pushing wheelchairs. He was on his way to see another patient, a somewhat surly, curly-headed Bronx native who hadn't been enjoying his most recent hospital stay. All in all, Hutch couldn't blame this Memorial veteran for not being on his best behavior. The operation to remove the excess scar tissue from Starsky's lungs hadn't gone very smoothly. Five days after the surgery, he developed a severe case of pneumonia and was put on a ventilator. Starsky had kicked and tried his best to scream, but his protests had fallen on deaf ears, especially those of the medical staff. Thankfully, antibiotics and forced rest worked their magic and the despised machine was taken away. Last night, after Starsky made a strong turnaround during the day, the doctor upgraded his condition to satisfactory. For the first time in many months, Hutch was now free to start on his own path to recovery and gaining some peace of mind.

Arriving at room number 339, Hutch slipped inside. Propped up in the bed, his partner still looked a bit pale, but any color was fine as long as there wasn't a white tube sticking somewhere out of Starsky's body.

"How you feelin'?" Hutch asked, taking a spot by the bedside.

"Better," Starsky replied wearily. "How was work?"

"Okay. Sat chained to my desk all day doing paperwork."

Starsky gave a tired smile. "Dobey's not gonna let you go outside to play without a partner."

"I got a partner."

"You're gettin' old, Hutchinson. Jeff transferred out of homicide, remember? I keep telling you, go easy on the kids."

Hutch pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down. "He's got a nice position in Juvenile, working with the other teenagers," he said, then laughed at his own joke. "I was talking about my _other_ partner."

"Yeah, well…he _ain't_ a kid anymore."

The humor faded away. Hutch sensed a door cracking open for a heart-to-heart talk, but the miserable tone in Starsky's voice didn't suggest it would be an easy discussion.

"So, what's on your mind?" Hutch asked, trying not to sound too concerned.

A half-frown appeared accompanied by a slight shoulder shrug. "Maybe it's time to let someone else take over as being hot shots," Starsky suggested.

Not sure what to make of this revelation, Hutch stayed silent. Part of him wanted to dismiss the sullen words as something spoken in the heat of exhaustion. Life had been hard lately, for both of them, but more so for Starsky. He'd been kidnapped, shot, and thrown in jail, accused of a heinous crime. Who wouldn't feel completely disheartened after going through all that? But staring at his best friend, and the utter despair burning in those intense eyes, Hutch knew there was more Starsky wanted to reveal.

"What are you saying? That you want to quit?" he finally managed to ask.

"Look at me, Hutch," Starsky sighed. "I'm starting to feel like Humpty Dumpty, and that doesn't even come close to what my lungs have gone through."

"Starsky, I've—"

"Hutch…" Starsky cringed and huffed out a painful gasp.

Hutch instinctively leaned forward, ready to offer comfort, but there'd be no use for his services. These muscle spasms came and went, occasionally breaking through the sedative layer provided by Starsky's regular dose of Demerol. When the bad ones hit, he would stiffen and take short breaths, riding out the waves of pain until they disappeared.

"Hey," Hutch said warmly, "we can talk later—"

"No!" Starsky grunted, grabbing a handful of thin blanket. His fingers curled and dug into the fabric, repeatedly flexing and relaxing. He stared up at the ceiling, nostrils flaring as frantic breaths rushed in and out of his chest.

Knowing it was useless to interfere by calling the nurse, Hutch put a supportive hand on Starsky's arm and stayed seated.

After the worst of the attack had receded and Starsky's breathing calmed, Hutch got up and went into the small bathroom. He returned with a wet washcloth and patted Starsky's face.

"Thanks," Starsky whispered, his attention still glued on the ceiling.

"What are good partners for?"

Hutch smiled, pleased that he had done some good. But as Starsky's expression changed into one of deep concern, Hutch felt the warmness fade from his heart.

"Hutch?" Starsky asked. "We'll always be pals, right?"

Caught off guard at the question, Hutch sat back down in his chair. "Of course, whatever makes you think we wouldn't?"

Starsky frowned doubtfully. "I mean, if one of us decided to go to another precinct…or something?"

Hutch lifted the washcloth off of Starsky's forehead. "Well, I think '_one of us_' has already done that," he answered, letting his emotions speak before thinking.

Starsky turned and shot him a tiny frown. "Okay," he acquiesced. "What if it was for a different reason?"

Hutch's instincts switched to high alert, luckily providing him one explanation for Starsky's odd question.

"Starsky, are you worried about what Suko said? About money buying favors?"

"You heard all that?" he asked, his voice cracking at the end.

"Yeah, but I don't believe it. We recovered a lot of that money," Hutch said with confidence as he settled back in his chair. "Even if he did pay somebody, they've probably skipped town by now. Either that or they've been laughing all the way to the bank. Suko's death made the front page news, not to mention all three TV stations."

"I supposed you're right," Starsky answered glumly, shifting his legs underneath the covers. "But that isn't what I was getting at."

While he watched Starsky, Hutch let silence enter the conversation while he ran other possibilities through his head. Just randomly picking one could prove tricky, though. Whatever was eating at his partner needed to be excised like a cancerous tumor, but saying the wrong thing could silence Starsky in a second. Maybe the best option was to give his buddy something Hutch didn't offer very much—patience.

A long sigh from Starsky signaled he was ready to start talking again.

"You know I've been trying to figure some things out," he said, gingerly moving an arm to rest on his chest.

Hutch nodded in agreement. "That's why you went to visit your mom. Did it do any good?"

"A little…I think I realized I was trying to run away from something I couldn't find the answer to."

Not a stranger to Starsky's twisted logic, Hutch kept listening, although there was a damned good chance thumbing a ride into his partner's innermost sanctum could end in a derailment.

"Doesn't it get old, Hutch?"

"Huh?" A strong shudder reverberated through the runaway train he'd just boarded.

Starsky smirked. "You know, constantly dealing with crap all the time. Seeing nothin' but the worst in people." He ran a hand across the surface of his blanket, smoothing a few wrinkles. "Risking everything you've worked for just to throw some asshole in prison for a few months."

"That's not all we do, Starsk. We've helped plenty of people—"

"Yeah, but at what cost!"

The heated outburst startled Hutch and tightened lines around Starsky's eyes revealed the price he'd paid for straining his lungs.

"Sorry," he mumbled. Starsky looked upwards, blinking frantically.

There was no way Hutch could ignore the despair churning behind that thin facade. Along with anguish and turmoil, it was a familiar event; sometimes strengthening the bond between them, other times threatening to tear it down. The worst times were when the emotional talons dug into their lives—clawing, and maiming—leaving behind scars that only the closest of friends could recognize.

"Hutch, what if one of us decided he didn't want to be a cop anymore? Do you think we'd still be…that we'd be…"

Starsky's throat bobbled as he struggled to finish the sentence. Hutch stayed in his chair, held there like a deer caught in a car's headlights. It wasn't hard to realize which one of them Starsky was talking about, but this impending admission had Hutch's stomach turning inside out. He wanted Starsky to look at him, but his partner's eyes stayed focused on the ceiling, purposely avoiding any contact.

Finally, with a hitch in his voice, Starsky managed to say, "That everything would stay the same between us?"

For an instant, Hutch couldn't believe what he was hearing. His best buddy just admitted he wanted to quit, but he couldn't even look Hutch in the eye to tell him!

"What the hell are you saying?" Hutch snapped, then immediately cursed at himself. If anyone had the right to want to walk away from being a cop, Starsky bore full honors. And true to his empathetic nature, Starsky understood what a decision like that would mean to Hutch. But knowing the man like he did, Hutch couldn't help but wonder what was really churning under that thick head of curls.

"Where is this fear coming from, Starsk?" he asked in a calmer tone, deciding to switch to a different strategy. "Is being cops the only thing that makes us care about each other? Do you really believe if either of us quit our relationship wouldn't be the same, or as strong?"

Starsky pulled his eyes off the ceiling and stared at him in surprise. "You mean, you'd actually consider quitting?"

Hutch shook his head, using the break to think about what he'd just said. "Of course I'd consider it…wait a minute." The vinyl cushion squealed under his thighs as he leaned forward. "Is that why you've been killing yourself, going through all the therapy and operations, so that you and I can keep being cops?"

"Believe me, this latest go-around wasn't because of that…"

"Alright, but since Gunther…" Hutch had to wait while the sickening taste of that name disappeared from his mouth. "Was that why you worked so hard to get back into shape?"

"Gunther, Rothman, Prudholm. Take your pick."

"Why…why didn't you say something? Anything?"

"I thought that's what you wanted, for us to stay partners."

"Starsky, I kept working because I felt we were making a difference…isn't that what _you_ wanted?" When Starsky didn't answer, Hutch asked, "You mean, you went through all that hell, trying to get back in shape, because…because of me?"

"Not just for you, Blondie," Starsky answered unconvincingly. He grabbed a section of the bed cover and pulled it up higher over his chest. "I had a stake in it, too, you know."

Hutch glanced down at the floor. Starsky _had_ done it for him, maybe not for no other reason, but certainly for the most part. Curling his fingers around the washcloth in his hand, Hutch wadded it up in a tight bundle and squeezed. "How could I not have seen that before now?" he asked quietly.

"Maybe it just took a while," Starsky said, apparently reading his mind. "To realize how much the job was changing both of us."

Hutch raised his head, interested in hearing more.

"That day at the old zoo, just before we arrested Prudholm," Starsky reminisced, "I think I could've shot him, Hutch, in cold blood. But you were there to stop me..."

"You didn't need me to stop you from doing the right thing. I wanted him dead, too…probably as much as you did. I mean, if Prudholm would've died that day, Terri would still be alive. There might even be a couple of little Starskys running around letting their Uncle Hutch spoil 'em rotten."

Starsky's sad facade finally cracked with a wistful smile. "Maybe, but if that had happened, neither of us would've been any better than he was."

More emotions played across his face as Starsky fell silent and settled his head into the pillow. Hutch kept quiet also, contemplating his own reactions at the old zoo. Seeing Starsky aim his gun at Prudholm had turned Hutch's stomach. He'd been able to stop his partner from pulling the trigger, but he should have done more to intervene. God only knew how many angels there were to thank for making sure that gun never fired.

"We never crossed that line, Hutch," Starsky continued. "But I came close with Suko…"

Hutch's attention perked. He'd suspected something heavy had been turning in Starsky's mind when Suko refused to say whom he might have paid off; heavy enough to make his partner do something he'd always regret.

Before Hutch had a chance to confirm his suspicions, Starsky saved him the trouble. "We said we'd always play by the rules, even if it let the bad guy win. That should've counted for something."

"It did, buddy," Hutch answered. "Look at Bree, at least she'll never have to testify to what that bastard did to her."

"Yeah, some consolation…"

Starsky turned his head and looked out of the window. The gesture indicated their conversation was drawing to a close, but before that happened, another topic needed to be broached.

"Starsky, that night you got drunk and called me…why did you want to kill yourself? Did you feel responsible for losing Ramos?"

His partner swallowed tightly. This time, a few tears escaped from Starsky's eyes. Leaving watery trails, they traveled down his cheeks and dropped onto the cotton gown. "He was my partner, Hutch. And I wasn't there when he needed me the most."

It was a far simpler explanation than what he'd expected, but Hutch let Starsky's response sink in. When he felt he could speak again, he made sure to choose his words very carefully.

"Didn't you consider, even for a moment, that those exact words came all too close to becoming my epithet?"

"I told you before, Hutch," Starsky admitted in a soft voice, "I was being selfish."

Hutch sighed, releasing a long, frustrated breath. "Okay, but now it's my turn," he started, struggling to keep his voice calm. "You came way too close to ending up on a slab in the coroner's office, Starsky. I don't know how much of me exists as you, but I never want to find out. Do you hear that? Whatever hurts you, hurts me. I can't be supportive if you just shut me out. I know you're a strong person, we both are, and we each need our space at times. But we're here to help people. And there should _never_ be a time when we don't allow each other that privilege."

"I'm not strong, Hutch," Starsky said, shaking his head. "I can't do this anymore, I can't."

More tears seeped out of Starsky's eyes. Slipping a hand out from under the covers, he wiped his face and turned back towards the window. It was a sure sign that brick wall of non-communication was about to go up.

"Starsky," Hutch said, leaning forward, "All I want for you, all I've ever wanted for you, is to be happy. Sometimes I feel that if I don't know what's going on with you, or if you're not sharing with me, that our friendship isn't as strong as it should be. That's my mistake." Taking a chance, Hutch placed a hand on Starsky's shoulder. "I don't want you ever feeling so lost again, that you'd want to take your own life. If being a cop isn't right for you anymore, then I'll help you find something that is."

Unexpectedly, Starsky turned to face him. "You mean, you'd keep working for the department?"

Hutch felt himself smile. "I'm ready to start tackling some new responsibilities; like taking a shot at the lieutenant's exam...aren't you?" Hutch raised his eyebrows, trying to emphasize his point. "You know, ready for a change?"

"If I quit being a cop, Gunther will have won, Hutch."

Surprised at hearing this explanation, Hutch gripped Starsky's shoulder a little tighter. "You're living proof that Gunther _lost_, Starsk. He wanted you dead. He wanted both of us dead. _We_ won, he didn't."

Starsky dipped his eyes, acknowledging Hutch's statement, but he looked as if he still had more to say.

"Knock, knock!"

Rachel's voice echoed in from the doorway. Seeing the front end of a wheelchair enter the room, Hutch immediately got up. His spirit leaped equally as fast as soon as he caught sight of Bree.

"The doctor said a little excursion would be good before her PT appointment, so Bree wanted to come see David," Rachel said, her face bursting with happiness.

Hutch stepped to the side, letting Bree have a good view of her brother.

"Hey, kiddo," Starsky wheezed out as loud as he could. "You're lookin' good."

"Hey…yourself."

Bree's smile lit up the room.

"Bree, tell Davey what you did in therapy yesterday," Rachel announced proudly.

"I got…my…arm up." Bree glanced at her right arm and after concentrating on it for a few moments, managed to lift her forearm from her lap.

"Ah, sis, that's great," Starsky said, inconspicuously wiping away the last remnants of tear trails from his eyes.

"Her therapist was really surprised," Rachel added. "He thinks there's a chance she could regain much more flexibility on that side."

"No more…tube?" Bree asked, using her good arm to point towards her mouth.

"Nope. I finally got rid of that damned thing."

Starsky shot a dirty look at Hutch.

"Hey," he said, "I was just agreeing with the doctor. You had enough fluid in your lungs to fill a swimming pool, Starsky. It was either put you on a ventilator or let you drown."

"Yeah, well, next time—"

"David Michael! I think there's been enough hospital visits from you for a long time," admonished Rachel. "Let's focus on you and Bree getting better."

"I agree, Mrs. Starsky. Maybe you need to come back around dinner, make sure little Davey eats all his vegetables," Hutch said, enjoying his wisecrack at Starsky's expense.

"Don't give her any ideas," Starsky grumbled. Turning back to Bree, he said, "Mom's right, though. You need to keep up the good work. And as soon as I can spring this joint, I'm gonna be right there joining you."

"You still…owe me…steak…dinner."

Starsky chuckled until he grimaced. "Ow, that hurt," he said, still showing a big grin. "You're on. You just let me know when you're ready for a big grilled T-bone, deal?"

"Deal!"

"Well, we need to get going, dear," Rachel said, bending down to tuck in a stray corner of blanket covering her daughter's legs. "If Bree's not too tired, we'll stop by again after she's done with her appointment."

"Okay," Starsky said. "Hang in there, sis. Most of those therapists know when to stop before they rip your arm off."

"Real words of wisdom there, Starsk." Hutch knelt down by Bree and kissed her. "I'll be down in just a few minutes, okay?"

Bree nodded and waved goodbye. After Rachel wheeled her out of the room, Hutch returned to Starsky's bedside.

"She's been working so hard. You should see her in the gym, she's made so much progress in the last couple of weeks."

"Yeah, it won't be too much longer before those sadists start working on me again."

"Maybe having a different goal to shoot for will make that easier."

A special kind of shine emanated from Starsky's eyes. "That your way of saying my future's lookin' bright?"

"More like, your future is in your hands."

Starsky snorted. "Seriously," he said in a heavier tone, "you ready to give up being a cop? I've got a good excuse." He motioned towards his chest. "Doc told me if I get anymore incisions, Triple A will want me on the cover of their next magazine, posing as an interstate map."

"I'll answer that question if you'll answer mine first."

"Fine," Starsky rolled his eyes.

"If I stayed, would you still promise to quit?"

"Ah Hutch, that ain't fair…"

"You agreed, Starsk. C'mon, what's your answer?"

Starsky sighed heavily. Hutch could see the gears turning in his partner's head, but for once he didn't envy Starsky for having to give an honest answer.

"I'd feel like I was abandoning you…and if you got hurt, I…I don't know how I'd feel."

"I've been hurt before, even when you were right there."

"Yeah, and that tore me up." Starsky flopped his arm off his chest and thumped it on the bed. "Your turn."

Hutch paused for a moment and gathered his thoughts. "You told me not too long ago," he began, "that what kept you going was that you loved being a cop, and you still had me as a partner. Remember?"

"I remember," Starsky answered, forlornly.

"And what happened that day out in the precinct lot, was strictly due to fate."

"So, where are you going with all this?"

"That no matter if one of us stays, or quits, or goes to work selling newspapers, we're always going to care about each other. Even if that means making sacrifices." Hutch dipped his head and shook it gently from side to side. "Maybe what I'm saying is, it's okay to want to change. There's other ways to help people, without having to carry guns. Look at Bree. Wouldn't it be great to be the person who helps her regain her life and her independence?"

"Sure, but that takes a lot of training."

"And learning to be a cop doesn't? Look, what keeps me going is that I like being a cop…and I still have you, Starsky," Hutch admitted, mimicking his partner's confession made months ago. "That counts for _everything_."

Starsky didn't say anything for a long moment. Finally, he said, "Go on, Blondie. I bet the girls are wondering what's taking you so long."

"So, you'll think about what I said?"

"Sure."

.

.

_Later that night_

_._

Starsky carefully reached his arm behind his head and adjusted his pillow. The nurse had just finished taking the last set of vitals and administered his nightly dose of pain meds. Now, he could look forward to six blissful hours of uninterrupted sleep, which by hospital standards, was practically an eternity. Closing his eyes, he welcomed the first waves of drug-induced unconsciousness. Although never lasting as long as he wanted, it was a chance for his body to feel totally healed and pain free.

Nestling under the blankets, Starsky reflected on the day's events. The talk with Hutch had straightened out a lot of things. Most importantly, it reconfirmed that their friendship was strong and whole, always ready to withstand whatever got thrown their way. The standoff with Suko had proven that, but it had also shown Starsky how close he'd come to killing the mobster in cold blood. Suko wanted to go out in a blaze of glory and take Starsky along for the ride. Luckily, he didn't get his wish. If Suko had been truthful about his threat to reach beyond the grave, Starsky would just deal with that in the future. He was through with Frank Suko robbing him of any more happiness. The man was finally dead; end of story.

The conversation with Hutch this afternoon had also got Starsky thinking about a change of careers. Given all he'd gone through recovering from various injuries, there was no doubt that experience could help someone else. He'd already been mentally reciting a new title—David Starsky, Physical Therapist. It sounded just as good as Detective First Class David Starsky.

Taking one last deep, painless breath, Starsky surrendered to total bliss.

.

_He could sense a warm light shining all around him. Starsky gradually opened his eyes, surprised to find himself surrounded by the most vibrant_ _radiance of sunlight he'd ever seen. The light seemed to be all-encompassing, pulsing with life and a peace Starsky couldn't even begin to describe._

_From somewhere in front of him, a lone figure appeared. As it drew closer, the shape became more human. Starsky could make out certain features—a strong jaw, eyes that radiated love, and a familiar smile. When the heavenly form finally stood in front of him, Starsky felt his heart burst._

"_Pop?"_

"_Hello, Davey. It's good to see you again."_

"_But, you're dead…does that mean…I'm dead, too?"_

"_No, son, not yet. I want to tell you something, Davey. Something I think you need to know."_

"_Sure, Pop. Anything."_

"_I may not have been the father you should've had, but I did my best. Someday, you'll have kids of your own, and you'll understand what that feels like. But you've grown into a good man, without me being around to help, and that's something any father would be proud of."_

_Starsky paused, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. "I've missed you, Pop. Missed you a lot."_

"_I'm always here, Davey. Just you remember that."_

Starsky woke with a start. His hospital room was dark, the only light coming in a thin plane through the slightly opened door. He looked at the clock on the wall, not surprised it was still very early in the morning. Searching the murky interior, Starsky vaguely hoped to find some remnant of his father's spirit. But he was alone in the room.

_Was what I just saw a dream, or was it real?_

Starsky nestled his head back down on his pillow. Real or not, he wanted to ask Pop how he and Joe Durniak had remained friends for so long…why Pop was willing to risk his job, and his life, for a childhood friend? Thinking a little more, Starsky realized it was probably for the same reason he would do anything for Hutch. A good friendship was a special blessing, something to be held and cherished...and protected.

_Even if that means making sacrifices._

With a smile on his face Starsky closed his eyes, filled with a sense of peace he hadn't felt in a long time. He hadn't dreamed about Pop for ages, but that wasn't the real issue. Whether he'd really transcended into another dimension, or just experienced a long, suppressed yearning, one thing was clear.

No matter where this life ended up taking him, he'd always be surrounded by love.

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THE END

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Dear readers, thanks for your interest in this story. I enjoyed writing it, and, as always, would appreciate to know what your thoughts are, or anything that would help guide me to create the type of stories you would enjoy reading. Take care, xt


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